


Hands Across the Sea

by fionaclare



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1950s, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bipolar Ian Gallagher, Coney Island dates, M/M, Period Typical Attitudes, Sex, Ukrainian Mickey Milkovich, a supportive ofc comes into play, and touching of hands, kev and v own a gay bar, lots of cigarettes, lots of secret hand holding, lots of snippets of history, so many cigarettes, the 1950s were a weird time, they did exist back then
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2021-01-15
Packaged: 2021-02-28 23:13:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23461564
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fionaclare/pseuds/fionaclare
Summary: “The Ukrainian,” the man stated with a surprised gleam in his eyes. Mickey's heart stuttered.“The Irishman,” Mickey countered. The man smirked. He flicked the ash from his cigarette.Set in 1950’s New York. A freshly immigrated Ukrainian meets an Irish American. A romance of shitty back alley bars, shared cigarettes and secrets ensues.
Relationships: Ian Gallagher/Mickey Milkovich
Comments: 263
Kudos: 246





	1. Cigarettes and Little Ukraine

**Author's Note:**

> My friend mentioned that there need to be more fics that present Mickey as a Ukrainian or explore deeply that side of him. So, as an Australian, I naturally decided to roll with that and create a Brooklyn (that movie about the Irish girl immigrating to America) inspired fic. 
> 
> I am a little nervous about this and I am trying to make it as historically accurate as possible. Be warned in this chapter there are a lot of suggestions regarding the ‘American Dream’ and Mickey choosing it over his Ukrainian culture for success. This is not meant to offend in any way, only to reflect the sensibilities of the time period, and in no way does it reflect my view of American’s or Ukrainian’s - just wanted to put that out there.
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated! Enjoy :)

The ship's cabin was anything but quiet. 

His bunkmate snored and rolled on the thin mattress above him. The black-haired man tapped his fingers against his singlet covered chest. _One, two._ The ship creaked. _Three, four._ Someone threw up into the bucket down the hall, and he could hear their retching from his compartment as if they were right beside him. _One, two._ His fingers tapped. His eyes twitched, and he sighed. 

“Got a smoke?” his bunkmate grunted, ripped from his sleep by the sounds emanating from the hallway. 

The black-haired man silently dug his hand into the right pocket of his breeches. Clutching his second last packet and his matchbox in one hand, he lifted his arm to the bunk above him where grease soiled hands took them from his possession. 

A match was lit with a hiss and smoke plumed above their bunk as the man exhaled. “Unlucky bastard,” his company laughed. “Can't blame him. Food is for shit. Almost makes you miss the shit they gave you at war. Names James by the way,” his pack of cigarettes was passed back to him. The black-haired man counted them to make sure James hadn't stolen any. He hadn't. He was relieved, he wasn’t in the mood for a beat down. 

“What's your name son?” the ship groaned around them. Waves lapped at the hull as the ship turned. 

“Mikhailo,” he replied. The black-haired man lit his own cigarette. His mother always said his English was perfect. During the war, with his father fighting for the Germans, then for the Soviets, as Ukraine was invaded many times, she taught him and his sister from the yellowed books of their home and crackling radio transmissions of the allies. Surrounded by the fear of war, there was little left to distract them. He was thirteen when the war ended, he remembered the way his mother's thin, bony fingers clutched his shoulders when his father returned. 

He enjoyed the way the cigarette warmed his hands, the way the smoke curled and rose before him like it was alive. The one thing he hated about ships, he realised, was the routine. The same people, the same meals, the same sea, stretching endlessly around you. It was like holding your breath.

“You’re bound for America with a name like that son?” James laughed, a sound which quickly turned to violent coughs. Mikhalio waited in silence for him to relax once more. 

“Yes,” he replied. “What's wrong with it?”. 

“It's a crap name,” James said bluntly. “You’re just another immigrant to them. Don't make it harder for yourself, you need something _American_ if you’re going to make it out there.” 

Mikhailo raised his eyebrows in offence and his fists clenched. He tapped his other hand, not holding the cigarette, against his chest once more. _One, two. Three, four._

“What name then?” he asked. “If I need something American, what name?”

James stubbed out his cigarette against the metal beam of the bunk and aimed the butt at the small bowl they had on their bedside. It missed and landed on the floor. Neither bothered to pick it up. 

“Mikhailo you said,” James considered. “Mickey.”

The sounds from the hall continued. The cabin to their left began to bang against their door in protest. “Shut it!” a gruff voice yelled. Mickey and James ignored it. 

“Yeah, Mickey. Good ol’ fashioned American name. You’ll fit right in with a name like that.” 

“Mickey,” Mikhailo hummed. The name felt odd on his tongue, unrefined without years of use. Foreign. But there was something inciting about it, the possibility it held. He didn't have to be Mikhailo from some poor Ukrainian town. He could be Mickey. The American twenty-something ready to make his mark on the world. 

“Mickey,” he repeated once again. “I like it.” 

“Good, good,” his bunkmate cheered. “Now Mickey, you have another cigarette to share?” 

They smoked through the remaining fifteen cigarettes together. James told him about the war, how he killed twenty Germans in a day with a sniper rifle and drank watered-down wine afterwards. Mickey told him of his family back in Ukraine, all of whom expected him to succeed in the brave new world of America, especially his father. James laughed and wished him luck before delving into a story of his own family. His wife was French and he had met her near the end of the war, every few years he made the trip back to America to visit his parents, she didn't join him - his parents were not fond of her. Mickey wondered if he would ever do the same, go back. He knew his answer when he felt the reigns of the bitter place he called home slowly unwind the further he travelled.

Two thousand miles away the lights of New York shined across the darkened waters of the Atlantic, shimmering in the night.

*

They called it Little Ukraine. 

Bound by Houston Street and 14th Street, it felt like a caricature of home. Filled with restaurants selling borscht and kiev, grandmothers advised their daughters as they walked through food markets, and churches preached Catholicism on Sundays. It made Mickey nostalgic for what home _could_ be. He could see his culture, but also the way America added a _shine_ to it. There was no starvation, no fear of Soviets or general unease, but instead a consumerised Ukraine. It made Mickey happy to see his people thrive in a strange world, but also uneasy.

He moved into a boarding house on East 7th Street. It was owned by a friend of his mother, who had made the journey to America before the war. “Her name is Anastasiya,” his mother said as she packed his suitcase with shaking hands. “Be polite and respectful. She is kind to have offered to help us, help you get on your feet when you arrive.” 

The suitcase had closed with a snap. His mother turned to him with watery eyes. “Write to us, Mikhailo. The second you arrive, ok?” he had nodded and surged forward to hug his mother. His heart clenched as his fingers pressed into her back where fresh bruises bloomed. 

“You should go,” Mickey whispered into the embrace. “Get on that boat and never return.” 

She had smiled at him sadly. “My life is my own to decide. You have yours to live. You don't think he has his own bruises? His own scars from me. I _fight_ , and I will decide when to stop.” He left that afternoon and wondered if he would ever see his mother again. 

Anastasiya was a thin woman. Her years in America had tanned her skin from deathly pale to a warm glow. Her blond hair shimmered in the sun when she walked, holding a cigarette in one hand and her purse in the other. She wore dark red lipstick, a colour she had found at Bloomingdales when she first arrived and had never deviated. When Mickey first saw her, in the foyer of her home, he thought her glamorous and wondered if this is what his mother may have looked like if she had the same fate. 

“You are Mikhalio,” Anastasiya stated. A small dog yapped at her feet and ran to inspect the dark-haired man standing at the door with a single suitcase and coat in his possession. 

“Mickey,” he corrected. Her eyebrows rose. 

“You’re mother doesn't call you that in her letters,” she appraised him with a gleam in her eye. “So which is it, boy?” 

Mickey swallowed. “M-Mickey,” he stuttered out. She smirked. “It was recommended to me to get an American name on my travels here.” 

Anastasiya hummed. “Smart boy,” she ushered him further inside. To their left was a room with a large dining table that seated close to twelve people and more. To their right was the kitchen. Above and below them Mickey assumed were the rooms. “A Mickey will go far, a lawyer, engineer perhaps. A Mikhalio will work his whole life, never leave New York unless he has to and die Ukrainian. Which do you want?”

He took a moment to respond. _Mother, forgive me._

“Mickey,” he repeated once more. He shifted the grip on his suitcase and his arm throbbed in response. 

She offered him no response and directed him up the set of stairs behind her. His room was on the second floor, beside the bathroom. It was a single bed with a small bedside table. The lamp upon it was stained; its shade, tilted to the right. A window overlooked the street where cars trundled past and shop merchants sat on chairs in the midday sun. 

“I’ll let you get settled,” Anastasiya said from the doorway. “Dinner is at 6. Visitors are only allowed on the first floor. I expect you to start paying board when you get a job,” she began to pull the door closed. “Welcome to Manhattan, Mickey.” 

*

It took him a month to find work. 

Despite Anastasiya’s affirmations on the success, his American name would garner, it would take time. After his first week in Manhattan, he found night classes in bookkeeping but had no job to pay for them. All the factories were full, the stores staffed and trades requiring skill he had little of. Much to the suffering of his father, he was never one for mechanical thinking or hard labour. Math, and books, fascinated him more. 

His luck struck when Charlie, another boarder, eloped and planned to move to Queens with his new wife. Charlie worked as a taxi driver and the company was happy for Mickey to replace him. Mickey had never driven a car before, but after an afternoon of testing out the black tinted DeSoto he was confident enough to begin work that night. 

The night shifts paid better, so for the weeks that followed he picked up as many people as he could. Other drivers had families to come home to so he was happy to take nights of their hands. Tipsy upper class threw bills at him from the backseat after a night at the opera. Businessmen slipped him more when they brought in a woman without a ring on her finger, their own glinting in the exchange. All the money he saved, he slipped into an old sock hidden within his suitcase. He reminded himself every night, returning to Anastasiya’s in the early hours with dark rings under his eyes, that soon he would have enough money. For the night classes. For his family. 

Weeks passed. He had developed a routine of sorts. Wake up after midday to an empty house and make his way to the main street, where old shopkeepers shouted in Ukrainian at children who knew little of what they said. He would go to Veselka, a corner cafe that served hot blintzes. Sipping Ukrainian coffee, he thought of his letters, unsent and crinkled in the drawer of his bedside, and wondered if one would ever make it into his mother's hands.

He would then return to the house and wait. Sometimes he would borrow a book from Anastasiya’s small library, mainly filled with classics like Austen and Shakespeare. Or he would play a record in the dining room, sit and smoke in the afternoon light. When the sun dipped below the tips of rooftops he would grab his coat and keys and make his way to the DeSoto, an old model but good enough for him. He would work. Return in the morning and rest. Then repeat. _One, two._ His fingers would tap against the steering wheel. _Three, four._

* 

He met him on a Friday night.

The man had fiery red hair, unlike Mickey had ever seen before. His shoes were scuffed and clothes inexpensive. From a distance, Mickey believed one could mistake him for a wealthy bachelor. But once you noticed the way his shoes were unpolished, coat a little too big and pants a little too short, you realised he was just like anyone else in Manhattan. Poor and trying to get by. That didn't stop Mickey from drifting his gaze across his face, along his jawline where soft stubble grew and over his lips. _Stop._

The taxi door clicked shut as the redhead shuffled into the backseat. He blew into his hands with a pink flush to his cheeks. Mickey tried not to stare. 

“I need to get to West 39th,” the man's voice was American, but Mickey could hear the inflection he forced. He did it himself, to fit in. 

Pulling away from the kerb, Mickey entered the line of traffic lining 7th Avenue. They were silent for a while. His fingers twitched. He let out a breath. “You Irish?” 

The man's eyes flashed to meet his in the rearview mirror. Mickey flushed and focused once more on the road in front of him. He turned onto 39th street. 

“Moved in 33’,” the man said carefully. “Lived in Brooklyn most of my life, Vinegar Hill. You know it?” he kept his gaze on Mickey through the mirror.

“Yeah,” Mickey licked his top lip. “Live in Little Ukraine myself, just off Houston Street.” 

The man looked surprised. “You’re Ukrainian?” 

Mickey bristled. “Yeah,” he grunted. 

“Not like that,” the man assured. “Just surprised me.” 

“How?” Mickey asked, trying to keep his sarcasm at bay. He pulled the car to the kerbside, just beside a darkened alleyway with nothing around but a sign reading _The Alibi_ in faded red print _. The fuck would anybody want to come here for on a Friday night?_ The area was mostly deserted, lined with a mix of small office buildings with a church at the end of the street, it was hardly the Copacabana or the Biltmore where he usually dropped off riders on a Friday night. 

The man handed him five dollars and pulled open the back door. “Wouldn't you like to know,” he said with a wink. “Thanks for the ride,” he disappeared from the backseat and closed the door behind him. 

Mickey wanted to wind down his window and yell that, _yes, yes he did want to know_ , but the man was already walking down the alleyway. Mickey watched his form fade in the darkness, before disappearing completely as he pulled open a red door to slip inside. 

He thought of nothing but red hair and charming smiles for the rest of the night. 

* 

His night shifts ended when he saved up enough money for the bookkeeping classes. His nights were now spent at a community college in Gramercy Park, sitting on uncomfortable chairs and listening to teachers drone on about auditing and payrolls. His days started earlier, his passengers replaced with businessmen rushing across the city and one night stands teetering on kerbsides. 

Exiting his Friday class, excited at the prospect of the weekend off, he adjusted his coat and tightened his scarf before he made his way down the stairs from the college. 

What he did not expect to see waiting at the bottom of the stairs, was the redhead man from over a month ago. His head was tilted towards the ground, a cigarette dangled from his lips as he kicked his shoes back and forth in the thin snow. Mickey's steps slowed. 

The man looked up. Recognition crossed his face before he smiled at Mickey. 

“The Ukrainian,” the man said with a gleam in his eyes. Mickey's heart stuttered. 

“The Irishman,” Mickey countered. The man smirked. He flicked the ash from his cigarette. 

“I was just waiting for a friend,” the man said. “Their class must have run late. You go here?” He enjoyed the way the man’s cheeks flushed in the cold, the way his fingers looked wrapped around a cigarette. 

“Yeah,” Mickey replied. The man silently offered him his packet of cigarettes. He accepted. “Bookkeeping, been at it for a few weeks now.” 

The man stared as Mickey lit his own cigarette and inhaled. Mickey flushed under his gaze and tilted his head down to the mudded snow. 

“Ian Gallagher,” the man, _Ian_ , stuck his hand out for Mickey to shake. Hesitating for a moment, Mickey shook his hand. 

“Mickey,” he flicked some ash into the snow, “Milkovich.” He appreciated that Ian didn’t comment on his name, say something stupid like _that’s not very Ukrainian._

They finished their cigarettes in silence.

Ian spoke first. “I don't think my friend is coming. Might’ve missed their class. Want me to walk back with you, Little Ukraine right? Near the East Village?” 

Mickey nodded. He didn't know what to say. He knew it wasn't normal for a man to walk you home, he wasn't some dame, but something stopped him from brushing the guy off and finding his own way home. He _wanted_ to spend time with someone other than the residents of his boarding house, Anastasiya and his night class. Despite all his months in New York, solitude had always surrounded him, and for the first night since he had arrived, he felt a little bit of it fade away. 

They walked down 1st Avenue leading to the East Village and talked. Ian’s cigarette packet swapped hands. Lighters were stuck and smoke rose into the night sky. Ian told him about his family, piled into a three-bedroom apartment in Vinegar Hill, a burrow the locals called Irishtown. He told him about Ireland, how he hardly missed it. In turn, Mickey told him of Ukraine, of the cold winters and the warmth of summer, when he and his sister would jump in the lake near their town and swim for hours. Ian told him of New York he had yet to see. 

Occasionally, as the cigarette packet crossed hands, their fingers would brush. The first time it happened Mickey darted his gaze around them, to see if anyone noticed. Nobody did. The second time, he worried less, and the third, he let his fingers twitch against Ian’s. 

They came to a stop outside the boarding house. Mickey could see Anastasiya’s bedroom light glaring through her lace curtains. He turned to face Ian. 

“This is me. Maybe I'll see you around Gallagher,” he stepped away but Ian’s reply stopped him retreating entirely. 

“Are you free Friday nights?” Ian blurted out. He didn't wait for Mickey's response. “There is a place we can go, _The Alibi_. If you’re not busy.” 

“Not busy,” Mickey swallowed. _This is a bad idea._ “Meet after class yeah? We finish at 8. We can go after?” 

Ian smiled. “Great,” he stepped away. “Goodnight Mickey.” 

_One, two._ Mickey's heart thumped. _Three, four._ He tried not to think about how much he liked the way his name sounded when Ian spoke it. 

He watched Ian walk down the street with bated breath. He shifted his gaze to the darkened windows of the homes around him before he quickly turned and made his way inside the boarding house. _Nobody saw anything. Nothing happened._

Closing the door to his room behind him, he let out a breath of relief. He resisted the desire to look out his window to know if he could still see Ian. His fingers shook with adrenaline, his spine pricked with unease, and his heart fluttered. _Fuck_. He thought. _This wasn't supposed to happen._

Slowly, he pulled himself from his doorway and fell to his knees in front of his suitcase. With a vacant expression, he snapped the case open and shuffled through his limited belongings until he found it. Stuffed inside the sock where he kept his money, it glinted in the dull light of his room.

_This wasn't supposed to happen._

His engagement ring wasn't anything extravagant. A simple silver band, shining in the lamplight from lack of wear. He spun it around in his fingers, and felt, despite its simplicity, the weight it set upon his heart. 

  
[ArtOfObsession](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION).


	2. Letters and Alibis

The letter came on Wednesday. Written in shaky English, Mickey read his mother’s writing as he sat in Veselka with his usual coffee and blintzes. 

_Mikhailo,_

_I am disappointed you have not written. Manya and I were happy to hear you crossed the sea safe from_ _Anastasiya’s_ _letters, but we want to know everything. Have you found work? What is it like? What do they dress like over there? Is it like the pictures? Please write, we miss you._

_You must notice I write in English. I feel it best to try. Your father gets mad when he sees, but it is language of the world now, yes?_

_Manya asks every day when we will join you, your father is earning little more now at factory so we may be able to send her by year's end. I am sad at thought of losing both children, however. I have heard so much of New York over the years, of Little Ukraine and the wealth. It must be splendid._

_Svetlana visits every week. She brings milk and bread from family's farm. Terry wanted you married before you left, you know this, but her father wants to ensure your success in America before he gives blessing. That is why so important you write Mikhalio, her father grows weary of the match. I know letters are expensive, I myself have not heard from_ _Anastasiya_ _since you arrived._

_Boys from town flock around Manya now you are gone, she pays them no mind, however. She awaits handsome American, or so she tells me. The seamstress…_

The letter went on for pages. Written on both sides of thin paper, he digested his mother's words with a heavy heart. 

_Svetlana_. He had tried to forget about her, about how hands across the sea bound him to the Russian girl. Her family had moved after the war. They took up residence on a farm on the outskirts of town and enrolled her at the local school. Mickey remembered when he first saw her, her fierce expression met his across the room and they were forced to dance to the _Volyn_ with their classmates. He had been relieved when her father refused to bless their marriage, the engagement rings felt like cages. She had told him of her dreams beyond living on a farm with children at her skirts. He listened and suppressed his desire to tell her that he had his own dreams. They involved the touch of a man, in the darkness of alleyways and vacant rooms. But if there was one thing his mother taught him other than English, it was to never trust a Russian. Instead, he would hold her hand awkwardly in his and tell her they would have a happy marriage. 

_Ian._ For the past two nights, after finishing his classes, he quickened his pace past the other students to reach the front of the college. Each night his heart rose at the thought of Ian waiting for him again, red hair glowing in the lamplight. Each night he was disappointed. He knew they had agreed upon Friday, but he couldn't help but feel disappointed. Mickey missed him, despite hardly knowing him. 

They had agreed upon Friday, two nights away. Mickey's fingers twitched against his coffee mug. _I can wait two nights. I’m not some desperate dame._ A waitress came past and took his empty plate. The clock struck 9 am. It was time to get to work. 

*

The week slowed. Customers slipped in and out of his taxi, each unknowingly signalling to Mickey the passing of time and the imminence of his meeting with Ian. He would tap his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel, his polished shoe against the brake pad. What he did not expect, was his class on Friday night to be cancelled. _Mr Hardy is sick_ , the typewritten note read on the dark windowpane of the class door. _No replacement. Sorry for any inconvenience._ It was only 6 pm, Ian was not coming to meet him for another two hours. Walking back to Anastasiya’s would be pointless, he would only have to walk back the way he came once he arrived. 

With a sigh, Mickey sat down on one of the benches lining the corridor. _Guess I’ll wait_. The clock ticked in front of him, perched at an angle above the classroom door. He amused himself for a while with a crinkled magazine, then began scribbling across its pages with the pen he had brought for the class. The clock ticked. Only an hour had passed. 

_It’s illegal._ Mickey frowned as he coloured in a prism, mind focusing on the way the ink seeped into the thin pages. _I can’t be with him, it's not the way things are._

The page tore as he dug the tip in too far. _I’m engaged. Maybe he deserves to know. Maybe he doesn't. I’m just another man to him, that's all we can be for each other._

He tried to fathom a world where he could hold hands with the ginger man in the light of day but failed. _Imagine_. _Kissing him? Living with him? Coming home to a family._ Such things made him smile sadly, they were too preposterous, too otherworldly. A man and a woman. To death do us part. That's the way things were, _and that's how they will always be._

 _One, two._ The clock ticked. _Three, four._

Looking up, his heart stopped as he read the time. 8:10pm. “Shit,” he hissed before shooting up out of the chair, throwing the newspaper back, and bolting for the front doors of the college. It was snowing outside, flakes fell on his eyelashes as he darted his gaze along the entryway and the bottom of the stairs. _Maybe he’s late._ His heart pounded painfully against his ribs. 

Ian wasn't there. But a set of footprints were. Checking to make sure no one was watching, Mickey ran after the trail, the glow of the streetlamps illuminated in the snow. 

He ran for two blocks before he found him. A plume of smoke soared above his red hair as he dipped his head and walked. Ian’s back was to him as Mickey grabbed him by the arm. His eyes shifted to the other pedestrians along the street, they paid the pair no mind. 

“I waited for you,” Ian said, breathless. His eyes were narrowed. 

“Lost track of time. I was waiting inside. Class got cancelled,” Ian’s expression softened and he patted Mickey’s hand away from his arm. Both warmed at the contact. The redhead pulled out a cigarette for Mickey and lit it for him. They both continued down the street, keeping their hands at a distance. 

“What did you mean,” Mickey spoke. Ian turned to look at him. “What did you mean that day we met? That you were surprised I was Ukrainian?” He flicked the ash into the snow nervously. 

Ian smirked around his cigarette. “That I’d never met a Ukrainian as pretty as you.” 

“Corny asshole,” Mickey smirked. “Does that work on all the guys?” he said it quieter, a man and his dog passed them, he tipped his hat in greeting at the pair. 

Ian laughed. “Not all. I’ve been punched a few times. Sometimes I get it wrong, not often. They never report, it would reflect on them,” his expression fell. 

Mickey walked a little closer, nudged his hand against Ian’s. _I understand_. He wanted to say. Across the street, against a shiny new Chevrolet, a man and woman kissed in the night, lipstick smearing between them. They both looked away. 

“My sister, Fiona, got a job today, a receptionist for a fancy law firm. Lip, my older brother, is still teaching at the high school with me. It’ll be nice to have more money,” Ian told him in conversation. 

“They know?” Mickey finished his cigarette and flicked the bud to the ground. Ian ducked his head. 

“Yeah,” he said, absent. “They worry. That I’ll be caught, sent away. They don't want the younger ones to see that, don't want to explain it,” he turned to face Mickey. “What about your family?” 

Mickey flushed under his gaze. “They don’t,” he took a shaky breath. “I've never-nev-not back home. It's different here,” Ian seemed to understand his stammering and nodded. _They don’t know and I’m engaged to a woman. Her name is Svetlana. I don't love her but we both don't have a choice. I'll never stop thinking about this, us, even when it ends._

“We’re here,” Ian smiled, nodding towards the faded sign Mickey had seen over a month before. _The Alibi_. It read. He was certain the red paint had chipped off even more in that time, the A was hardly distinguishable. 

“Looks…” Mickey trailed off. 

“It’s better inside. Trust me,” Ian grinned. In another lifetime, the redhead may have grabbed his hand and pulled him down the dark alley. He settled for a tug against Mickey’s jacket before they both disappeared into the darkness. They stopped before a red door, as chipped as the sign. Ian led him inside. 

It was unimpressive. 

After the door, there was a set of small stairs that ended in a large open area filled with chairs and a small space for dancing. A bar was on the other side of the room. Men sat in the chairs and talked with soda mixers in one hand and cigarettes in another, a few danced to the music emanating from the record player on the top corner of the bar. It smelt of soda, cheap beer and watered down vodka. 

It was plain, plainer than the bar from his town back in Ukraine. There were no pictures on the walls. The bar was barren of distributor names or a menu. Industrial chairs and tables were scattered around the room. Mickey silently wondered how the place got any customers at all, but then realised. 

“It's for people like us,” Ian said, standing beside him. The redhead made to entwine their fingers but Mickey flinched his hand away and looked around them.

“Don't do that,” he hissed. His eyes were wide as they darted around the room. Other couples paid them no mind, a few glanced towards them with disinterest before returning to their company. 

“Mickey,” Ian soothed. “It's fine, really. No one will tell, we can be us. Free.” 

The Ukrainian relaxed slightly. Slowly, tentatively, he grazed his fingers along the side of Ian’s hand and entwined it with his own. Ian smiled at him, and Mickey couldn't help but smile back. 

“Ian!” a voice boomed from the bar. “How are you doing?” rubbing a cloth over the bar, the man gestured them forward. He was tall and broad, dark brown hair cropped and beard trimmed. He grinned at the pair before slapping the cloth over his left shoulder. 

“Don’t embarrass him Kev!” a woman emerged from the back of the bar with a box of sodas. “Can’t you see he's with somebody?” she chided. She was beautiful, her black hair was elegantly pinned and she wore a dark red dress that contoured around her hips and waist. 

“Two soda mixers,” Ian said politely as he leant against the bar. “It's busy tonight V.” 

“The new ones keep asking for top-shelf stuff. They don't want mixers,” the woman - V - said. “How do they think we have stayed in business this long, huh? We can’t have drunken boys making mistakes and spilling secrets. The pigs busted that place in West Village a week ago,” V frowned at them before slipping more than one shot of _something_ in each of their drinks with a wink. “But that doesn't apply to you boys, have fun.” 

They found a table in the far corner, well away from the sounds of the record player and the couples dancing. They put their drinks down and sat. Mickey blushed, not really knowing what to say. 

“Kevin and Veronica own this place,” Ian told him. “Been running it for five years now, the cops never busted it, probably never will. Veronica calls it a _respectable_ place, it doesn't call attention to itself,” Ian ran his finger along the condensation of his glass. Mickey chose that moment to look around the bar once more.

“So that's why it's like,” he vaguely gestured to the _lack_ of drunks stumbling through doorways and moans emanating from the lavatories, “this.” 

Ian nodded. “It's nice though, right?” 

“Yeah,” Mickey took a sip of his mixer. His stomach fluttered. “It's nice.” 

*

They were tipsy. 

Ian pressed him against the wall of the alley and grabbing the back of his neck, pulled Mickey forward. Their lips met and Mickey flinched back, his mouth still connected to Ian’s. The clash of teeth, tongues and spit felt strangely pleasant. He wondered if it felt like this sober. His mind swam as he grabbed the back of Ian’s head and pulled him closer. 

The red door to The Alibi slammed open. They quickly broke apart. Kevin laughed from the doorway. “Works every time.” 

Ian narrowed his eyes. “Was that necessary?” 

Kevin fixed him with a blank stare. “If you want to keep coming here every weekend then, yes. It was necessary,” his gaze softened. “If they catch you for solicitation it's 90 days. Decade for sodomy.” Ian continued to frown at him. 

“I won't lecture you,” Kevin sighed. “V needs me back at the bar. Have a good night, ok? Don't do anything I wouldn’t do!” 

“That’s not much then is it?” Ian taunted.

Kev huffed and closed the red door closed behind him. The pair were left in the darkness of the shadowed alley. 

Mickey chose that moment to run his fingers along his lips. He had never kissed a man before, his only experience was short, sweet, pecks from school girls which never made him feel like he did in that alley. He recalled a boy from school, years ago. They lived near Mickey and for a short time, they walked home from school together through the forest. They had decided to practice kissing each other _for the girls_. They both knew it was a lie. With hesitation, they pressed their mouths together with no real understanding of how it worked. The other boy had stopped, laughed, and demanded they continue the journey home before it grew dark. The boy had died in the war a few years later, a German or Russian bombing, he could not recall. Mickey didn't understand what had happened that day, but every time he thought of kissing, he thought not of frilled skirts and long hair, but of silent, lonely, forests.

Green eyes met blue. Mickey could recognise the lust in them and wondered if his own showed the same. He pulled out a cigarette with shaky fingers.

“I’ve never,” he lit the end and watched small embers alight, “I haven't. Not before. I wouldn’t know what to do,” he avoided Ian’s gaze by twisting his head towards the opening of the alley. 

“It’s fine,” Ian’s voice soothed. A pause. “I’ll show you. If you want.” 

_One, two._ Mickey’s heart thumped, he flicked the ash to the alley floor. _Three, four._

“My boarding house. The others are out late or working Friday nights. As long as nobody sees.” He met Ian’s heated stare and thought of the ring. _Should I tell him?_ The idea that Ian wouldn’t want him if he knew dispelled the thought.

Ian nodded eagerly. They left the alley, their hands that were not holding cigarettes in their pockets as they made their way towards Little Ukraine. 

They were silent for a while, enjoying the calm of the city around them before Ian spoke. 

“Do you know,” he coughed, “Do you know how it works. Like,” Ian ran his tongue along his bottom lip, “do you want to give or receive?”

Mickey blushed. _Is it normal to discuss these things beforehand?_ He thought condescendingly before he realised that his hesitation and admitted inexperience really left the redhead with no other option. Mickey scratched the side of his nose in an attempt to hide his blush.

He coughed and let out a plume of smoke. “Receive.” 

“Okay… have you-” 

“Yeah,” Mickey interrupted. He remembered sitting in the bath that morning, a smoking ashtray on the corner lip of the tub, as he cleaned himself. Another boarder had banged on the door and told him to _hurry the fuck up_. He had yelled at them to _wait their damn turn_ before he let out a shaky breath and continued, hoping he was doing it right. 

Ian ran his fingers briefly along the back of his hand in reassurance as they turned the corner to East 7th Street. They retreated back into the pocket of his coat. “Walk ahead,” Ian instructed before he stopped and feigned interest in the streetlamps as he enjoyed his cigarette. To anybody looking through their curtained windows, they would see a redhead man in a coat smoking on the corner, and another man walking further down the street for a minute or two, before turning into the boarding house and disappearing inside. If they waited long enough, they would see the redhead man throw the butt of his cigarette to the gutter and follow the same course. 

Minutes passed with Mickey standing in the darkened entryway. He noticed the lights in Anastasiya’s bedroom were off and the house was mostly silent. He could faintly hear music being played in one of the rooms downstairs. His foot tapped against the hardwood floor and his hand twitched at his hip. 

Footsteps sounded outside. The door handle turned and Ian slipped through the door before closing it behind him. Mickey grabbed his face and pulled it toward him, pressing their lips together once more with a moan. Ian ran his hands along Mickey’s sides. “Upstairs,” he murmured, in an attempt to keep quiet. “First door on the right.” 

Ian grabbed his hand and with a sense of eagerness pulled him up their stairs. Mickey stifled a laugh when Ian pressed against his back as he keyed open the lock on his door. They slipped inside. The door clicked shut behind them. Lips kissed along his neck, hands pushed his coat from his shoulders. Mickey flushed in the darkness of his room.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The response to the last chapter was amazing! Thank you so much. I hope you enjoyed. 
> 
> Any kudos or comments are much appreciated!


	3. Safe Spaces and Dinners

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Ok Liam is a part of the Gallagher family in this. I wasn't going to ignore the fact he is African American in an incredibly racist society so I included a little consideration of that
> 
> So I made a history error. In the earlier chapters I mentioned Ian lives in Five Points, that is actually impossible as by the 1950's it wasn't called that anymore/had a thriving Irish community, so I changed it to Vinegar Hill (also called Irishtown) which is not too far from the East Village where Mickey lives. 
> 
> ALSO Eilis and Tony (who are the main characters of Brooklyn) make an appearance here 
> 
> Fun fact: Little Ukraine doesn't exist anymore either :(

Hands grasped in the dark. Clothes were stripped and bare skin pressed against the sheets of Mickey’s bed. The smaller man was on top, at first, then the larger, both struggling to decide how it would happen. The springs in the mattress creaked, and they both froze, chests pressed together. 

“Quiet,” Mickey whispered as he kissed along Ian’s neck. The redhead’s elbows were braced on either side of his head and his legs twisted with Mickeys. It wasn’t comfortable, but it was enough. For now. 

“I have lube,” Ian groaned out as Mickey reached down between their bodies. “To make it easier,” their gazes met in the dark, pupils blown and breaths laboured. Mickey tried to keep his nerves at bay, but the way his hands tremored and eyes darted around the dark, empty room, hid nothing from the man above him. 

Fingers stroked along his jaw. “Hey,” Ian said, “we don't have to do this. If you’re not ready…” 

Mickey shook his head and brought their lips together once more. He didn't want to think. About the ring concealed in a sock beneath them. About Svetlana across the Atlantic, expecting a husband. About Ian. They rearranged themselves, Mickey, on his hands and knees because Ian said it would be easier, and Ian kneeling behind him. 

It was the cold feeling of the vaseline at first, then the press of a finger, then another. Mickey groaned, pleasure washing over him as Ian bent his fingers slightly upwards, stroking inside of him. His arms shook with exertion, and he dropped his upper body onto the mattress, careful to not let the old springs creak under his weight. 

“Good?” Ian asked as he leant over Mickey’s back and placed kisses along his spine. 

“Yes,” was all Mickey could moan out as Ian’s fingers began to stretch him open. 

“I think you’re ready,” Ian said after a while before pulling his fingers out. Mickey nodded into the sheets and shuffled his hips up a bit, his legs had grown stiff. 

Ian pressed in, and Mickey tried to suppress his shout. It was… overwhelming. He didn’t know if he wanted to push Ian away or make him come closer, further in. The man behind him ran reassuring hands along his back, then hips, then one hand gripped his member and began to stroke. Mickey shivered and pressed backwards, taking Ian further.

It went on like that, laboured breaths and suppressed moans. Quiet squeaks of the bed and soft kisses, until they both came, sweat coated bodies pressing together and smiles neither could see painted across their faces. 

*

Mickey took him to Veselka the next morning. They waited until well after the other borders had left to exit Mickey's room, clothes crumpled beneath their coats. Ian exited the house first and walked back to the street corner from the night before. Mickey followed soon after. Their sides brushed as they walked to the cafe, both attempting to keep the smiles off their faces. Nobody stopped them or watched them cautiously. The secret hung above them but it didn’t feel as burdensome as Mickey expected. 

They did it again the next weekend and the weekend after that. They could go to Veselka every morning after, the same waitress would come around, take their order of blintzes and go behind the counter to gush with the other girls she worked with about how _handsome_ they were. One of the girls would always point out the lack of rings on their fingers with a smirk. They would erupt in giggles and miss how the pairs’ feet would nudge together beneath the stained vinyl table. 

He sent his family a letter, only three pages long, knowing it was too short. He told them of New York, of Veselka and Little Ukraine. His job as a driver and night classes were added with hesitation. He knew they proved he was doing well, providing. He hoped it wasn't reason enough to legitimize the marriage and send Svetlana across the Atlantic. It was strange, he pondered, the way his actions would dictate those of Svetlana. He slipped his weekly earning of fifty dollars with the letter and posted it that day. 

What he didn’t write about was Ian. He didn't tell his mother that he was getting comfortable, that the fear of being with a man was slowly ebbing away. He didn't tell her that he worried, sometimes, that he wasn't the only man in Ian’s life, but that he didn't have the courage to ask. He didn't think he could bear the answer. He was scared of its eventual end but didn’t want to stop whatever _it_ was. For the first time, he felt free, and that was a feeling he was not willing to give up. 

When Anastasiya told him it had been four months since his arrival in a passing conversation over dinner, Mickey realised for half of that time, he had spent it with Ian. He thought of the redhead, of their conversations and brushing hands. Of their weekly trips to the Alibi and back to the boarding house under the cover of night, and found that he regretted nothing. 

*

Apart from Mickey, there were six other boarders. Four of them were Ukrainian, one Italian, and the last Irish. He didn’t interact with them much, the occasional greeting and query about their day was the extent of it. Anastasiya enforced weekly dinners where they all had to be present, but he usually left conversation up to the others. 

It was Thursday night, and they all sat at the dinner table quietly eating the roast beef Anastasiya had prepared with an array of vegetables. The Irish girl, Eilis, picked at the napkin on her lap. She had been at the house longer than Mickey, a few months at least. She had a mother and sister back in Ireland that she would talk about a lot. Mickey didn’t mind it, hearing about the lives of others like him, the similarities they shared. Her face was flushed, embarrassed. Mickey wondered if she was going to say what was on her mind but Anastasiya beat her to it. 

“What is on your mind Eilis,” the Ukrainian woman paused and took a sip of her wine. “You’re being quiet.” 

She was right. Of all the borders, Eilis was usually the most outgoing. She went out of her way to converse with Mickey daily. _How are your classes going? How’s work? Have you received letters from home yet?_ At first, he felt she was getting the wrong idea, but noticed she did it with everyone. He felt bad he never did the same, he silently scolded himself to try a little more. He stared at his plate, only half-eaten. 

Eilis was blushing. “Oh-I was just-I was just hoping we could have spaghetti one night?” Mickey’s eyebrows rose, he had heard of the dish, but never tried it himself. _Italian?_

Anastasiya mimicked his expression. “Explain.” 

Despite her pale complexion, the girl turned even redder. It reminded him of Ian. “Well, I met an Italian at the dance last week. His name is Tony. I’ve been spending some time with him and he wants me to meet his family. I don't want to make a fool of myself, I’ve never had Italian food before,” she continued to twist her hands into her napkin nervously. Anastasiya was grinning. 

Mickey distantly thought of Ian introducing him to his family, would Mickey be like Eilis and want to prepare for it? Agonise over meeting them, only for them to fall in love with him the moment he comes through their door? He immediately pushed the idea away. He tried not to scowl at the table. 

“That is a splendid idea,” Anastasiya beamed. The rest of the table murmured in agreement. 

“I can cook it for us,” the Italian border, Alessandro offered. He turned to Eilis, “I can teach you some customs if you want, so you don't embarrass yourself,” he snickered. She swatted his arm with a laugh. 

“This is good. Something we should try more often,” Anastasiya stated. She looked around the table, her gaze zeroed in on Mickey. “Mickey,” he gulped some of his water nervously, “are there any other foods you want to try? It may help you settle into New York. It's a very diverse place, not just Ukrainian. Some Scottish, perhaps Irish?” 

Mickey's heart stuttered. _Fuck_. 

She was looking at him indifferently, but there was a message in her gaze, a warning perhaps. Anastasiya smiled at him and Mickey’s hands trembled beneath the table. The back of his neck began to sweat. How the _fuck_ could she know? 

Before Mickey could fully process what had transpired between them, one of the Ukrainian borders spoke up, distracting him from thoughts of her intentions and if a letter detailing his transgressions was already halfway across the Atlantic. 

“Scottish food? Like that haggis crap?” he said with a laugh. “I’ll pass on that.” The rest of the table agreed and went back to haggling Eilis for information about Tony. 

Anastasiya's gaze shifted to his once more, and Mickey tried not to think about what that meant. 

*

“Do you want to come over for dinner?” Ian asked a few nights later. They were walking back from Mickey’s night class. It had become a routine of sorts, every weeknight Ian would join him at the bottom of the steps a little after class ended, a full packet of cigarettes waiting within his coat pocket for them to share. Mickey always made sure to pack his things slowly, take his time to leave the building so none of his classmates would suspect anything. He would wait outside, the chill of winter reminding him of home, until he would see Ian walking towards him after rounding a corner. His heart warmed every time. 

“Like,” Mickey inhaled and relished the feeling of warm smoke in his lungs to hide his sudden panic. “With your family?” 

Ian smiled. “Yeah. They want to meet you.” 

Mickey still found it hard to believe that Ian’s family really accepted him. He definitely didn't believe they accepted him enough to bring Mickey into their home. His breath grew shaky as he avoided the question, his eyes darted to the cinema playing _Singin’ in the Rain_ across the road. The slogan read, **_MGM’s Technicolour Musical Treasure!_**

 _Might be a hit_ , he thought. 

“Mickey,” Ian said softly, reaching out to grasp Mickey's upper arm. The Ukrainian stilled.

_This is what couples do. Meet each other's families. Is that what we are? A couple?_

He thought of meeting Svetlana's family for the first time. Her mother was a cold woman, born believing one must attend church every Sunday, pray before all meals, and work. Work until your fingers grew tired and knees weak. She wanted a strong husband for her daughter, capable. Mickey sat at her table and she did nothing but sneer. Her father was silent, appraising him with careful, calculating eyes. He had left after an hour with a ‘half-blessing’ as her mother had declared. His own father had been furious, but not enough to ruin any chances of the union. So when Svetlana showed up the next day with milk and eggs he congratulated them and wished them luck. 

“Mickey,” Ian repeated. His grip on the Ukrainian’s arm shocked him out of his thoughts. Mickey pulled away from his grasp with a stern expression and continued their pace down the street that was growing in other late-night walkers the closer they got to the East Village. 

“I get it,” Ian let out a sigh. “I get it if you don't want to. But, I want you to come. They do as well,” he paused. “It's safe,” obviously sensing Mickey's hesitations. 

“Like the Alibi?” Mickey countered, not wanting to give Ian a full answer. 

“Safer than the Alibi,” Ian said smoothly. He offered Mickey another cigarette and the Ukrainian took it gladly. Smoke rose above their heads. 

“When?”

The way Ian’s expression turned from nervous to excited should have made Mickey feel the same. However, it was guilt that filled his chest. By the time they reached the boarding house, he had chain-smoked most of the packet. If Ian noticed, he said nothing. 

*

The ring was cold in his palm. 

Sitting on the edge of his mattress, he thought of how easy it would be to pawn it. He would walk down 1st Avenue, go to that place with the stern Turkish owner and demand a good price. The money would be hidden within his coat as he walked back to the house, where he would pack his things, count his savings, and leave on a night bus to _somewhere_. It would be so easy to disappear. But he wouldn't have Ian. He also thought of Svetlana, how she didn’t deserve the shame of a runaway fiance, and her limited options as a consequence. As much as he hated the union, he did not hate her. 

Mickey liked to tell himself that as long as he felt Ian’s presence, in the city, driving past the Alibi, at Veselka, in his bed, that he would be ok. _Everything will be ok_. The memories of his time with Ian would be _enough_. 

He threw the ring across the room in frustration, enjoyed the clang against the floorboards and the way it spun to a stop in the corner of the room, near his dresser that he hadn’t bothered to use yet, his belongings still fitting in the small suitcase that arrived with him. 

Not bothering to pick it up, he stood and grabbed his cigarettes and lighter. Ian planned to meet him at the end of the street so they could walk to his family’s home. Mickey’s body tremored slightly as he pulled open the door to his room and made his way down the stairs. _It's just dinner._ He heard Anastasiya in the kitchen and avoided her presence, he wasn't ready to face the idea that she _knew_. 

The cold of winter had brought on the warmth of Spring. Flowers bloomed in parks and sidewalks, potted plants spilling from apartment windows and verandas. Mickey didn’t need to wear his coat as much anymore, and he was enjoying the feeling of wearing loose button-ups tucked into slacks. He lit a cigarette once he exited the house and made his way down the street, looking out for that flash of red hair.

Ian was leaning against a street lamp, it was not late enough for it to be lit. Smoke billowed around him and he grinned at Mickey's arrival. 

“Ready?” 

Mickey nodded. _Does he do this with all the guys he meets?_ The thought was hypocritical, he was the one hiding an engagement. 

Ian pushed off the street lamp and they made their way out of the East Village and towards Brooklyn. Ian regaled him with stories of his family and Mickey tried to focus on the way his face lit up when talking about his brothers and his sisters, and the way it dropped when talking about his parents, instead of the anxious feeling that rose in his chest. 

They lived in an apartment on the fourth floor. The ground floor of the building was occupied by a barbershop and next to that a general store. The street was busy in the afternoon light, women with babies clutched to their hips haggled for the remaining bread left at baker shops and groups of children ran along the sidewalk. There was no elevator, not that Mickey expected one, so they had to walk up the stairs to get to the chipped, dented door of Ian’s home. 

Ian didn't knock, just pulled open the door and pulled Mickey in behind him. “Hey!” he called out. The apartment was already filled with sound. Shouts could be heard from the living room and clanging from the kitchen. 

“Debbie’s got her rags!” a male voice shouted with a teasing tone. 

“Shut up Carl!” a girl shrieked. Footsteps thundered from the kitchen. 

“Both of you shut it!” a woman's voice this time. “The block doesn't need to hear you two squabble. Carl come help me with dinner. Debbie, check on Liam.” 

Sighs of defeat, then movement across the apartment. Ian and Mickey stood at the front door, Ian had a sly grin on his face when he faced Mickey. “Glad you came?” 

Mickey let out a nervous laugh and grinned back. “Yeah. Real glad to hear about some teenager getting her rags.” 

Ian shoved him slightly and wrapped one of his arms across the back of Mickey's shoulders. “That's just Debbie. She and Carl go at it all the time. Fiona is cooking tonight.” 

Mickey was led into the living room where Debbie was playing with a toddler. Mickey tried not to react to the fact the baby was black and the rest of them were obviously, very much Irish. 

“Yeah,” Ian drawled out. “Neighbourhood likes to think we adopted him out of _the kindness of our hearts_ but Liam is really family. Something about traders coming to Ireland at the turn of the century. We’re not too sure. 

“Don’t bring it up with Fiona though, she gets upset,” Debbie added. 

Mickey could understand why. Despite Liam’s family not caring about the colour of his skin and treating him the same as everyone else, the real world isn't the same. Mickey knew schools were segregated, the school days for Liam would have been shorter and his school overcrowded with less experienced teachers. He knew that in other cities, closer to the South, it would have been worse. The phrases _'white only'_ and _'coloured seating'_ flashed in his mind. He frowned. 

“This Mickey?” they both turned to face a woman at the doorway to the kitchen. She had wide doe eyes and a soft smile on her face. Her dress was a little stained and crinkled, but Mickey thought her beautiful. 

“Yes,” Mickey confirmed. He coughed and stepped forward to shake her hand. _What are you supposed to do in this situation?_ In bemusement, the woman he assumed was Fiona, grinned and accepted his gesture. 

“We’re having stew tonight. Nothing fancy,” she turned to face Ian, “Lip will be a little late, but let's get started anyway.” 

The five of them, including Debbie and Liam, made their way into the kitchen where a large table was set up in the middle. A pot of stew was placed between a clutter of spoons and a pile of bowls.

They arranged themselves around the table, Fiona was at the head and Debbie, Carl and Liam on one side, with Mickey and Ian on the other. The other head was left empty for Lip. 

The bowls were distributed and the pot of stew passed around. Debbie and Carl bickered about taking too much and Liam appeared happy as Fiona helped him eat. Lip showed up a few minutes later, books and papers piled in his arms. They were thrown into the living room before he joined the table, nodding at Mickey. 

Mickey tried to calm his nerves when the first question was asked. 

“So, Mickey huh?” Carl asked. “That you’re real name?” 

“Carl!” Fiona hissed, but Mickey had already shaken his head in answer. 

“No, I have my Ukrainian name, Mikhalio. Mickey is just better here,” he didn’t notice that Ian had grabbed his hand beneath the table. Ian didn’t let go so Mickey decided that neither would he. 

Lip looked at him from across the table. “Does your family know, about… this? Did they travel here with you?” 

Ian’s hand squeezed his. 

Mickey swallowed some of his strew and focused on the wood grains of the table. “They don’t. I came alone, my sister may come at the end of the year if they have the money for it.” 

He dodged the remaining questions about his family, afraid that somehow the truth of Svetlana, the engagement, _everything_ , would come out over a simple family dinner. 

The questions went on. _How did you meet? What do you like about Ian? Do you like baseball?_ He answered them all with varying degrees of effort. By the end of the meal, as Debbie stacked their dirty plates and spoons, Mickey couldn’t help but feel exhausted and overwhelmed by it all. 

“Need a cigarette,” he told Ian, who only frowned in response. 

He climbed out onto the fire escape and let out a nervous breath. Only a moment later, he could hear Ian following. 

“You ok?” Ian asked. He placed his hand along Mickey's back. 

“No,” Mickey said honestly. He shakingly gripped the railing. Ian softly pressed himself against his back and Mickey only tensed a little. “I don't understand. It feels like we're in this world where what we’re doing is ok, but what happens when we leave this apartment? We go back to pretending until we reach another place we feel safe. It's so confusing, it feels right. I’m happy. But it's not allowed.” 

Ian turned him around, his gaze sad. 

“I know, but it's the risk. This, the safe spaces, is better than nothing,” he ran a hand along the side of Mickey's face. “I-” he stopped himself, “I really like you, and I get if you want to stop-” 

“I like you too,” Mickey cut him off. He didn't give himself time to rethink his answer, consider his insecurities and questions of if Ian had others or the implications of what Ian didn’t know, he only spoke honestly. He _did_ like Ian. A lot. 

Ian smiled and kissed him against the fire escape. Carl yelled at them to cut it out from inside and Lip smacked him upside the head. They laughed and pulled apart. 

“Want to stay the night?” Ian mumbled into Mickey's neck. The Ukrainian shivered. 

“Can’t,” he managed to get out. “Ana will notice. She always knows when someone doesn't come home,” he considered telling Ian about the dinner a few nights ago, where he got the idea that maybe Anastasiya knew, knew something at least, but decided against it. Mickey didn't want to ruin their night. 

“I'll come back with you then,” Ian decided. As much as it was a bad idea, Mickey didn't argue. 

Before they left Mickey was hugged by Debbie and Fiona, Lip shook his hand and Carl did the same. Mickey thought of introducing Ian to his own family, most likely as a friend, and knew for certain Manya would try her luck at him. He is technically American, after all. His mother would make borscht for dinner and solozhenick for dessert. His dad would ask Ian of the war and the youths of today. Ian would leave and his mother would be the only one who suspected. It was a fantasy, a nice one. 

They made their way back to Little Ukraine, their routine of following one after the other into the boarding house almost automatic. They slowly made their way up to Mickey's room, careful to make no sound. Mickey eyed the door at the far end of the hallway that was Anastasiya's. Her light was out. 

They pulled off their shirts and pants and arranged themselves in the small bed. Ian ran his fingers along Mickey's back and hips. Mickey entwined their legs and enjoyed the warmth they both generated. They fell asleep in each other's arms. 

A car drove down the street below, its headlights flashed through the first and second-floor windows lining the street. The ring was illuminated, glinting in the corner of the room where it laid. A moment passed. It was once more submerged in the darkness of the night. 

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> All kudos and comments are appreciated :)


	4. Confessions

Arms were curled around him, lazy and warm. They both slept on their sides, Mickey’s back to Ian’s front contorted in the small single bed. Mickey woke up first, blearily checking the small clock on his nightstand reading 8:40 am. He had work that day and was planning on driving through the Upper East Side, the people tipped better, had more money to throw. He liked the feeling of Ian’s arms around him, though, and wished he didn’t have to leave, that they could stay together in his room for the day and _pretend_. 

Cars honked outside and the morning sun shone through his thin curtains. Not moving, he drifted his gaze around the room, taking in the empty drawer set with his razor, towel and toothbrush on top of it. On the back of the door was a small mirror, and on his nightstand was a vase with a tulip, half-decayed and a small bowl, half-filled with stubbed out cigarettes. He figured it was Anastasiya who changed the flowers, always just before they lost their colour. The idea of her coming into his room without his knowledge made him tense, but it was not as if there was anything she could find, that would prove anything. 

His gaze landed on the ring. It remained on the floor where he had thrown it the previous night. His heart dropped. He thought of the chances of Ian waking up before him, shifting out of the small bed and finding it. Images of how the redhead would react flashed through his mind and he shifted in Ian’s hold. Pained eyes, betrayed. Questions of why and accusations to follow. Ian, despite his sleep, seemed to sense Mickey’s desire to flee and detached his arms from Mickey’s waist, then rolled over to face the wall. Cold washed over Mickey as he stood up from the bed and picked up the dropped ring. 

After concealing it once more inside his belongings, he grabbed his towel and toothbrush and slipped outside, turning to click the door shut softly behind him. 

“Does he know?” 

He stiffened, then turned around. 

Anastasiya was wearing a red silk gown that morning, Mickey had noticed that she never wore the same colour twice in a row and that she had another in deep blue and emerald green. Her gaze was harsh, with her arms crossed in front of her chest.

“Does who know what?” Mickey lied through his teeth. His heart thundered as he thought of Ian sleeping in the other room. He just wanted to crawl back into bed, not deal with his mother’s childhood friend interrogating him for his life choices. 

“I am not stupid Mikhailo and neither are you,” _So it’s back to Mikhalio now?,_ “does that boy know about Svetlana?” 

Mickey nervously drifted his gaze to anywhere but her eyes, focusing on her slipper clad feet, then the clock across the hall that showed 8:48 am. 

“I do not care.” Shocked, Mickey looked at her and felt a flutter of relief fill him, but didn’t let it grow. They didn’t live in a world where a landlady would be _ok_ with this sort of thing, he expected her next few words to be demanding him to hand over his key and board for the month. 

“What?” he breathed out. He prayed, thought of holding his mother’s hand in church as the priest told them if they asked god would deliver, that Ian was still asleep, unaware of the conversation brewing outside the door. 

“I don’t care,” she repeated. “I have not told, and I never will. The Italian and the large Ukrainian downstairs are as well you know?” _Mickey fucking did not know_. “I _do_ care however,” she paused and fixed her glare, “that you obviously haven’t told that boy the truth. You are smart Mickey, you know this doesn't end well. Boys downstairs are lucky, they have no engagements and families wanting them to marry. You are not.” 

“I know,” Mickey swallowed. He rubbed his hand along the back of his neck, “I know,” he repeated. “I can’t tell him. It's gone on for too long. He will end it an-” 

“You want to enjoy it while it lasts,” Anastasiya concluded. Mickey flushed. 

“I understand,” Anastasiya said. “Just know, he will know the truth eventually,” she put her hand on his shoulder, “And please, be more quiet. Thin walls.” 

Her red robe swished as she turned from him and walked back to her own room. Mickey leaned against the door of his room in amazement. _She knows, and she doesn't care._

Mickey made quick work of brushing his teeth and leaving the bathroom, just in time to see Eilis depart from her room across the hall in her Bartocci's uniform. “Morning!” she smiled. 

He didn’t have a chance to reply before she was rushing down the stairs and out the door, his lips quirked. _Must be late._

Taking a deep breath, he pushed his room door open and slipped back inside. _Please be asleep_ , _please be asleep_. 

Ian was, in fact, awake. Panic filled Mickey instantly, thinking of all the things Ian could have heard, but it vanished when Ian turned from pulling his slacks up over his tucked-in shirt and sent him a warm smile. 

“Hey,” Ian said before walking the short distance to where Mickey stood shocked, still recovering from his first encounter of the morning. He kissed Mickey quickly before slipping his belt on. “It's Saturday, so I'm not teaching today. But I have to help Fiona with some stuff. I can’t stay,” Ian mistook Mickey's stressed expression as sadness and grinned before kissing him once more. “I’ll miss you though.” 

“Miss you too,” Mickey managed to force out. Guilt filled him, as it always seemed to when Ian showed affection more than what _dalliances_ usually did. It’s not that he thought of Ian as a way to enjoy himself before he was forced into a marriage he didn't want, but he couldn’t allow himself to think of them as anything more than _close_. He thought of Ian’s family, the way they treated him like they were a couple, together. He considered how they would feel about him after Ian found out. Would they sit at their large table and talk about how he lied? How he broke their brother’s heart? Which he would, it was inevitable. 

Just as he couldn’t imagine having a future with the man in front of him, he also couldn’t imagine not being the one to tell him the truth. He would have to tell him, soon. 

Ian once again mistook his expression. “Hey,” he grabbed one side of Mickey’s face and rested his other hand on his shoulder. “You know,” Ian flushed, “you’re the only guy I’ve done this with, am with. Where I stay the night with them, introduce them to my family. I, lo-I really like you.” 

He pretended he didn't notice that Ian was about to say _love_. Mickey patted his hand away from his face fondly, trying to ignore the way his heart also warmed at the idea he was the only guy Ian was with. 

“Yeah-ok,” he forced out. “I’m good. Go help Fiona. I have to work today anyway,” Ian kissed him for a _third_ time before gathering the rest of his things. 

Sadness flooded Mickey when he realised that the first man Ian introduced to his family wouldn’t be the last. He wondered what the next man would look like. Would he look like Mickey? _This doesn't end well_ , Anastasiya had said. Mickey couldn’t help but agree. 

*

A week passed. A week of Ian telling him how much he liked him, of visiting Ian’s family for dinner once more and staying the night, since Anastasiya knew the truth and Ian’s bed was slightly bigger. Anastasiya gave Mickey looks over the dinner table and in the stairwell as he moved throughout the house. He can’t tell if she's trying to say _just tell him already_ or _I’m sorry._ It wouldn't matter in the end, he told himself. Mickey tried not to pay attention to the Italian, Alessandro, who agreed to show Eilis how to eat spaghetti properly, and Ivan, the large Ukrainian who immigrated six months before Mickey. He didn’t know a lot about them, just that they both work at a metalworking factory. Mickey watched the way they stole glances, sat next to each other at the dinner table and held hands under the table, each eating with one hand. He didn’t know if they will be _better_ than him and Ian, that they will manage to stay together despite everything. But he hoped, for them at least. 

It was the fifth of April when the letter arrived. Anastasiya handed it to him after dinner and surprisingly said nothing, no _you have to tell him soon_ or _it will break you if you lie any more_. Nothing. It made Mickey worry. 

He opened it in the confines of his room, his back pressed against the mattress, cigarette hanging from his lips, papers held above him as he squinted to read his mother's writing. 

  
  


_Mikhailo_ _,_

_I hope you are well! The money you sent with your last letter was very helpful. Your father was so proud! I bought Manya a new dress with it and a purse for myself. Your father purchased his own things with the rest. I have good news, Svetlanas family has agreed to the marriage. The money you sent us proved you are doing well over in America, and they are happy to send Svetlana now. She is to depart in a month, arrive on the 1st of May for the 10 am arrival. She said she needed time to pack her things and say her goodbyes, otherwise, we would have sent her with this letter. I am so happy for you Mi…_

The letter went on but Mickey didn’t read most of it. Talk of Manya and her dress and a new meal his mother was trying to master faded as his hands shook and heart thumped. 

_...Enjoy it while it lasts…_

_...You know this doesn't end well?..._

He had less than a month. _They_ had less than a month. Cigarette ash fell onto his sheets but he didn't care enough to react. The papers dropped to his chest and he let out a breath. 

“Fuck.” 

He lit up a second cigarette, then another, and one after that, and after finishing his fifth, stubbing it out in the small bowl on his nightstand, he knew what he had to do. 

*

Veselka was quiet that night. Instead of going to the Alibi like they usually did after Mickey’s classes, he asked if they could go to the cafe instead. He didn’t want to be around others when it happened, and he knew from Eilis who also frequented the small cafe, that hardly anyone came in at night. 

They were seated by a waitress, and they told her they would order a little later. It was her and a cook working that night. She didn’t blush and giggle at them like the others who worked in the morning, just took their order and went to sit down at a table across the room with a large book and papers scattered across it. She looked a little familiar. Mickey paid her little mind however, his leg bounced against the cheap linoleum floor. He clasped his hands together to stop them shaking. 

The ring burned a hole in his pocket. 

Ian was running his finger down the laminated menu. “Want coffee? Not that hungry…” he mused, not looking at Mickey.

The Ukrainian unclasped his hands and slipped one inside the pocket of his slacks. It was a piece of metal, Mickey realised then. A small piece of metal, smaller than a quarter, that would ruin _this_. This _thing_ that they had together. Still, he grasped it and pulled his hand out of the pocket. 

“ _Borscht_?” Ian said, intrigued, “Mick, what's _Borsch-_ ” 

The ring was placed between them. Silence. 

“What’s that?” Ian asked with a laugh. “You proposing or something?” a red flush covered Ian’s cheeks and Mickey’s heart clenched, knowing in Ian’s mind that’s exactly what it looked like. He let out a deep breath. 

“I’m engaged,” Mickey confessed. 

Ian’s expression dropped. “Wha-”

“She’s back in Ukraine. Her family have agreed to the match, and she will be here in less than a month. I’m sorry I never told you, but I couldn’t lie anymore,” Mickey rushed out. His eyes watered and his fists clenched. He quickly snapped his gaze to the waitress across the room but she wasn’t paying them any mind, scribbling into her papers.

For the first time, Mickey couldn’t tell at all what Ian was thinking. His face was blank and vacant, what he did notice was that his fists were clenched as well. 

“How long,” Ian managed to say, his voice distant. 

“How long what?” Mickey replied, nervous. _How long until Svetlana gets here? How long did they have left?_

“How long have you known you were engaged, Mickey?” 

He ran his hand over the back of his neck and looked down at the table. There were scratches on its surface, from coffee mugs and pens, stains from spills and an etching in the far corner, _S+F_. His eyes traced its grooves, mind distancing from the situation as his body could not. 

“Since the beginning.” 

Ian sucked in a breath. Mickey looked up and saw his eyes were glassy, shining in the dim cafe lighting. 

“You lied this whole time? It's been _months_. You tell me now, just because you've run out of time. I thought-I thought-” Ian couldn’t finish the sentence. He stood up from their table, quiet enough to not draw attention to their already tense conversation. 

“I’m sorry-” Mickey gasped out, hand surging forward, desperate to find Ian’s, to feel safe, secure, like maybe everything would be ok. 

Ian flinched back. “Don’t,” he said. “Please-just don’t. I-I have to go. I have to _think_. I have to…”

But he didn’t move, he stood above Mickey, eyes glassy and hands shoved into the pockets of his slacks. _To keep them away from him_ , Mickey thought. _Maybe it’s for the best._

“Okay,” was all Mickey could say. 

The bell of the door dinged shut behind Ian. Mickey could see his retreating form through the foggy windows. Knowing that this may be the last time he ever saw Ian, in a dingy Ukranian cafe, he wished he could have told him that as a child, borscht was his favourite meal.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was emotional to write and yes I tried to make the ending 120% sad. 
> 
> Any kudos and comments are appreciated! I love reading what you guys are thinking about this! :)


	5. The Week That Followed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so recap, mickey got mail saying svet is coming on the 1st of May. he realises it's time to tell ian about the engagement, he does, ian says he needs time to think and leaves. sadness now ensues

The driving kept his thoughts at bay. The constant opening of the back passenger door, a slumped figure entering and sprouting of an address before handing over folded or crumpled notes - only for it to repeat fifty metres down the road - calmed him, calmed everything. The thoughts of Ian, of what could be. 

On Tuesday his night class was cancelled. Ian didn’t show up the night before, and Mickey didn’t expect him to again. That didn’t stop him coming back at 7:45 pm and waiting forty minutes sitting on a cold, iron bench _just in case_. Every shadowed figure that passed made his heartbeat escalate, before the illumination of the streetlamps would reveal faces of people he did not know. He knew it was silly, waiting. Ian wanted nothing to do with him anymore, there would be no more late-night walks, family dinners and shared cigarettes. _Just memories._

Eventually, when the temperature dropped and he was sure Ian wasn’t coming, he stood up from the bench and made his way back to Anastasiya’s. 

Turning the corner where Ian would stand, his heart clenched and he forced himself to keep moving forward, to not think about the fact Ian wasn’t there to follow him into the darkened house. Standing at the front gate of the boarding house, his fingers twitched at his sides. He craved a cigarette. The feeling of a steering wheel beneath his hands. A pedal at his feet. Shutting the front door behind him, he caught a glimpse of Anastasiya in the kitchen. She frowned, and he looked away, continuing up the stairs. Grabbing another packet of cigarettes to join the half-empty one he was already carrying, and the keys to the taxi, he made his way outside again, this time making sure to avoid Anastasiya’s gaze. 

A woman was leaning against a gate to a house two down from Anastasiya’s. Her hair was red, curled and sprayed in place. A cigarette hung from her light pink painted nails. She flicked the ash onto the sidewalk. 

“On the clock?” she asked him as he approached the parked taxi. 

There were traces of black smudges beneath her eyes. He remembered Manya putting mascara on once, and crying soon after about something, a dress, a boy. She had used water to wipe away the black, inky mess it made across her face. Mickey saw that this woman had done the same. He spun the keys in his hand and opened the driver's door. 

“Where to?” he asked. She slipped in the back seat. Her fur coat shimmered in the dark. 

“Irishtown, Vinegar Hill,” was all the woman needed to say before he turned on the ignition and pulled out onto the silent street. 

They were silent for most of the ride. Mickey switched the radio on and the static vocals of Tony Bennet crooning _‘Because of You’_ flowed between them. Mickey saw the woman's eyes flick towards his in the rearview mirror before focusing once more on the blurring streets. He thought, briefly, about what she had been crying about. She was dropped off two blocks from Ian’s home and disappeared inside an apartment block much like his. He wondered if she was visiting someone, or lived there, but knew it wasn’t his place to ask. He also knew, as the folded notes slipped in his hand, that it was time to keep driving, find another customer, but the idea that Ian was close compelled him to turn off the ignition and step out into the cool, windy, night. 

Locking the car behind him, he walked the two blocks to Ian’s. Mickey lit two cigarettes in that time, one that he dropped into a mudded puddle from shaky hands and the other that he stubbed out the moment he stood across the street from their apartment block. He didn’t want to light another but knew it would look peculiar if he stood there doing nothing. So he did, and watched the illuminated windows of the fourth floor. The curtains were drawn where he assumed their apartment was. He wondered what Ian was doing. Was he at the dinner table, telling his family about him, the man who had lied? Was Fiona frowning and Lip saying _he knew something was up_? Or had Ian told no one, and was trying, like Mickey was failing to do, to pretend that everything they had was just a distant memory? 

His eyes flicked down the street, where, to the left, he saw Debbie walking home with Liam in her arms. Other walkers gave them a wide berth or looked on with harsh frowns. He noticed, with a slight fondness, that Debbie paid them no mind. She was getting closer, and one look to her right would reveal Mickey, standing across the street from her home. He sighed, and quickly turned away, doubting she could identify him from the back. 

Walking down the street and preparing to make a turn to walk the two blocks back to his taxi, he didn’t notice the curtain of a fourth-floor apartment opening, and a person watched his retreating form. 

*

On Wednesday he went to class. There was only a month left of his classes before he would be a certified bookkeeper, but he did not feel as elated as he should have been. His mind strayed to Ian that night, as the teacher scratched white chalk against the board and prompted questions from the class, many too tired from day jobs to answer. 

Mickey had a chance to look around the room, tapping his pencil against the desk. The class was mostly men, but three women sat around the front, legs crossed and skirts dangling over their knees, backs straight, even as they furiously noted everything the teacher wrote and attempted most questions. He could see they tried harder than the men and silently wished them luck, most of the jobs would go to the men, no matter what score they got in the final exam. 

The class wrapped up with the teacher setting a reading on accounting law for tomorrow. Half the class groaned as they collected their belongings and papers before filtering out the door. 

“Hey,” a female voice said as he was leaning over in his chair to collect his things. He had gotten used to taking his time leaving class and didn’t find a reason to stop that habit now. 

She looked familiar, too familiar. It was the first thing Mickey noticed as he looked up from the floor of the classroom. The teacher walked out the door and called for them to shut it when they left. They were alone. 

“Hey,” he replied, unsure. 

Her cheeks were red. She ran a hand through her shoulder-length brown hair and clutched her books tighter to her chest. 

“I was just wondering what happened to your friend?” 

“Friend?” Mickey frowned. _Does she mean Ian?_ His eyes darted to the door, and then to the empty room around them. _Does she know?_

“Yeah,” she said carefully with a smile. “The redhead fella. Saw you two come into the cafe I work at last Friday. I always see him on my walk home after class. He’s usually walking towards the college so I just figured you two must be close. Haven't seen him this week though,” she let out a nervous laugh, “He sick? Have a girl at home to take care of him?” 

“No,” Mickey swallowed, suddenly understanding what was happening. “No girl. Just busy, night job now,” he lied. 

“That’s too bad,” she frowned and sighed, “he was an attractive fella.” 

Mickey couldn’t help but agree.

*

On Thursday night after class, he drove past the Alibi, fists clenched against the steering wheel as he slowed the car and glanced down the alleyway. Seeing nothing but unknown bodies leaning against the walls, he hit the accelerator once more. He thought of the cold brick wall of the alley, of Ian kissing him, of Kev and V and the simpler times. A man flagged his car down, and the thoughts ceased. By 3 am he had passed the Alibi another four times. He told himself he was fine. 

*

Friday morning, after everybody had left for work and Mickey decided to sleep in, Anastasiya cornered him in the kitchen. 

“You told him?” 

Mickey sighed. 

“Answer!” she demanded. 

“ _Yes_ , fuck,” Mickey snapped, she slapped his arm as the curse left his mouth, “I told him, and now he wants nothing to do with me. Said he needed to think but it's been a week. Svetlana gets here in three,” he frowned and leaned against the kitchen bench. “It’s for the best. You were right, this will always end badly.” 

“It is not best if you are sad,” Mickey felt the need to argue that he would be sad with or without Ian, that even _if_ Ian came back, they would only have three weeks before saying goodbye for a final time. “Maybe he is waiting for you,” she offered optimistically. 

“Doubt it,” he grumbled. 

“Maybe-” 

“Why do you care!?” he blurted out, fists clenching in frustration. “For weeks you have been telling me to tell the truth, that it will end badly. That I’m not lucky like those bastards downstairs. Now I have told the truth, you expect everything to be fine. For him to want to be with me.” 

“I care about you, I wanted you to be happy with him, but not happy in a lie,” she said carefully, “Isn't that what you want as well? For him to be with you _despite_ the lie? Think about his feelings, he expects you a single man and that you could continue to be together. Now you are engaged man who only has a few weeks left. Did you even explain that you don’t love her? Or does he just assume you do?” 

He held his breath and thought back on what he said. 

_...She’s back in Ukraine. Her family have agreed to the match, and she will be here in less than a month. I’m sorry I never told you, but I couldn’t lie anymore…_

“Fuck,” he muttered, before avoiding another slap from Anastasiya. 

“Fix this,” she hissed. “If he is to make a choice, he needs to know full truth. Not stupid truth you gave him.” 

Five minutes of Anastasiya demanding he grab his keys and _look proper_ saw him out the front door and the Ukrainian woman scowling at his retreating form. Hope rose in his chest, he was going to see Ian, he was going to tell him the full truth. That he didn't love her, that in these last weeks of freedom the only person he wanted to spend it with is him, that he didn't care how much it would hurt, he just wanted...

Lip was leaning against the taxi. Mickey's pace slowed to a stop and his expression, previously painted with an excited smile, was replaced with a frown. 

“Lip,” he greeted carefully. His desire to get in the car and drive across the Manhattan bridge and to _Ian_ dissipated. Lip seemed to inspect him, eyes squinted in the morning sun, before crushing the butt of his cigarette against the sidewalk. 

“We want you to leave Ian alone,” Lip cut right to the point. “Saw you the other day, outside our home. You seeing him won’t do any good. You need to move on.”

They both stared at each other, Mickey choosing not to respond to Lip’s demands and Lip not saying anything more. 

“How is he?” he managed to ask. 

Lip regarded him with a glare. “Fine. Considering.” 

Mickey nodded and chose to look at the cement beneath his feet. A weed was sprouting through a crack in the sidewalk. He wondered if it would flower. 

“I don-” Mickey began to say. 

“You know I really don’t care,” Lip said harshly. “I don’t care if you want to marry her or not, but it doesn’t change the fact it's happening. Ian will be left behind. So what if he forgives you? Less than a month you said? Three weeks more. Then this happens all over again. It's better for everyone if you just forget.” 

Mickey stayed silent. It was then that he realised, Lip was right. There was no point in telling Ian the _full truth_. Nothing would change, he would still have to marry someone he did not love and lose someone he did. They could spend three weeks pretending everything was as it was before, or three weeks pretending to forget…

…until one day maybe they would. 

But then Anastasiya’s ramblings about the _full truth_ and letting Ian make his own decision came back. He needed to know. In the future, Mickey would look back on his display of grovelling to Ian’s brother with pity. 

“Look,” Mickey began, swiping his hand under his nose and looking out onto the empty street. “Could you just-could you just tell him something for me? Please, even though it’s over? I wanted to tell him for a long time about the engagement. I didn’t ex-I didn't expect for us to be _something_. I thought he would grow bored of me eventually and find another guy and it wouldn't matter,” Lip looked like he was about to interrupt, “but then things were great, and-and I was too scared for it to end. Ian made me feel free, what he and I had was... the best time of my life“ Mickey trailed off, then swallowed. “Could you please tell him that?” 

Mickey looked at him in desperation as Lip remained silent. 

“You know,” Lip said after a moment, preparing another cigarette. “You were the first guy he brought home to meet us. Debbie and Fiona liked you, hell even Carl and I warmed up a little. Guess we were wrong,” he stepped away from the taxi with a wave of his hand and a cigarette in the other, walked away. “Don’t contact him. Congratulations on the engagement.” 

“You’ll tell him?!” Mickey called out. 

Lip didn’t bother to respond. 

Mickey huffed, then pulled open the driver’s door and started the ignition. He would work the Bronx that day, maybe even Mt Vernon, anywhere far enough away from Brooklyn, from Lip and his shitty attitude, from Ian. 

As he drove over alongside Central Park and into Harlem, he thought of what it would feel like to keep driving, to not turn around once he reached New Rochelle, or Connecticut passing Greenwich and Bridgeport. He knew if he kept driving, he would eventually reach Boston, then Canada, then he may travel south again, to Detroit or Chicago. He wondered what it would feel like, to never look back. 

Mickey eased his foot off the pedal just outside of Mt Vernon. 

He thought of the freedom of leaving, and wondered if it would compare to what he felt with Ian.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for all the feedback, it means a lot that you are enjoying this fic!
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated! x


	6. The Rivers and Oceans Between

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter one, and surprisingly, cigarettes are only mentioned ONCE (ok twice) in this chapter, not every three paragraphs. It's called growth.

“He said he doesn’t love her.”

“Then why’s he marrying her?”

“Obligation. I don’t know. Didn’t stick around to ask.”

“Did you tell him about Ian? He hasn’t left his bed today. Said he was just tired, said the same yesterday.”

“I didn’t tell him anything. Just to stay away.” 

Fiona and Lip’s voices carried through the fourth-floor apartment. Ian laid in bed, sheet bundled around his feet, morning sun blaring through the open window. His mind was fogged, his limbs tired even though he hadn't left the apartment since the cafe, since Mickey. 

_“How long have you known you were engaged, Mickey?”_

_“Since the beginning.”_

_“You lied this whole time? It's been months. You tell me now, just because you've run out of time? I thought-I thought-”_

**_I thought we were together. I thought I loved you._ **

Fiona and Lip continued their conversation. Ian rolled in bed to face the closed door of his room. He blinked slowly, and sat up, cold feet pressing against the hardwood floor.

“How could Mickey lie to him like that?” Fiona accused. 

“Didn’t think they would turn into something. Something about Ian finding someone else. Guess Ian didn’t, and Mickey was in too deep.”

“Huh,” pots clanked in the kitchen, Ian imagined Fiona was brushing stray curls from her face, unable to be contained with pins and hairspray. “He’ll get lucky with the next one. Ian’s a catch, deserves better.” 

In the other room, Ian thought of Mickey. Black hair threaded through his pale fingers. Blue eyes avoiding his gaze, a flush upon his cheeks. His head against his chest, in the darkness of a bedroom, as the Ukrainian talked of his classes and how much he enjoyed them, how excited he was to never drive a taxi again. 

_He doesn't love her_ , his mind supplied through the thick haze of the past few days. _Or had it been a week?_ He knew he hadn’t been teaching. He hoped Lip had covered for him, said he was sick or visiting relatives in Washington that didn’t exist. 

**_He doesn’t love her._ **

He pulled a crinkled shirt from the floor. Maybe it made things better, maybe it didn’t. Despite Ian being trapped in his own head for the better part of a week, he had avoided all thoughts of the man residing across the East River. The idea of Mickey not loving her gave him hope that not everything had been a lie, that perhaps Mickey shared Ian’s affections. But it meant Mickey was preparing to live the rest of his life in a loveless marriage. His heart clenched as he began doing the buttons of the shirt against his pale chest, fingers shaking from disuse. 

In their time together, they never mentioned anything about love. Ian had skirted around it, avoided ever breaching the topic by emphasising how much he _liked_ Mickey and what they had. He couldn’t help but wish he told Mickey how he felt earlier, maybe it would have changed things? Maybe Mickey would have told him the truth earlier. Given them more time. 

His pants followed. Then his shoes. 

Fiona and Lip didn’t hear the door to the apartment open, letting in, only for a moment, the sound of children running through the hallway. Ian pushed himself down the stairwell, vision still blurred from sleep, legs tired but regaining feeling the longer his feet made contact with the descending steps below.

*

A red-haired man caught the bus from Irishtown to the East Village. A cigarette dangled from his lips. The bus crossed the Manhattan Bridge, the currents of the river below glimmered in the midday light. His mind, dormant for the past week, began to spark to life once more. Ideas, theories, desires. He took in a mouthful of smoke, letting it blow against the scratched, rain stained bus window. 

*

On Saturday morning Mickey stayed in bed, fingers clenched against the sheets, which were unwashed from over a week before, a time when Ian would curl against him in the dim morning light. Mickey shuffled the sheets, pressed his face into the right side of the bed where Ian used to lay, and pick up faint traces of _him_. Eighteen days. He had eighteen days to forget. 

He thought of Svetlana, her angular, smooth face. Dark brown hair and harsh, calculating eyes. If things were different, he may have considered her a friend. They had always been somewhat close. In school, she preferred his company over that of the other students, and on occasion would walk home with him, then continue on her own up the hill to her family's farm. Mickey in his childish youth liked to think that maybe they would have remained friends as they grew older, living in their parent’s homes and sharing syrniki after Sunday church.

That was, until the engagement. 

His father mistook their friendship for attraction, and a plan of marriage was proposed. Svetlana, he realised, was a fantasy for other boys in the village. She was beautiful but impossible to have. Most mothers didn’t fancy the idea of their sons marrying a Russian, a _wild one_ at that. They sneered at the way she avoided the feminine classes held at the church every Wednesday and spent time with Mickey instead.

He curled into the sheets, face pressed deep into the pillow. In the distance, outside his door, he could hear the other boarders moving throughout the house, through the kitchen for breakfast and out the front door. Like him, most of them had the weekend off. He considered working that afternoon, to give him something to do other than think about Ian, and the way they used to walk home in the brisk, New York night together, cigarettes disappearing between them. 

It was 12:40 pm when there was a knock at the door of the boarding house. 

Mickey was in the kitchen, buttering the last slice of bread leftover from breakfast. He was in an undershirt and loose pants, not fully dressed, but enough to answer whoever was at the door. He put down the butter knife, took a quick bite of his breakfast before he walked into the foyer, pulling the door open. They got visitors all the time, he thought it was probably a friend of Anastasiya’s, or a door to door salesman trying to flog a hoover. _They worked weekends, right?_

A large frame and a flash of red hair came into view and he pulled the door open. 

Ian stood on the front steps of the boarding house, hands in the pockets of his pants. Dark circles were painted below his eyes, skin pale.

Mickey’s eyes widened. His fingers clutched the doorknob.

“Sorry I’m late,” Ian said, leaning forward, eyes on his, before he reared back once more to keep his distance.

“You’re here,” he managed to say. Darting his gaze behind Ian, and to the relatively busy street filled with mothers with prams and groups of men in grease soiled clothes heading out for lunch, he quickly pulled Ian inside, enjoying the brief contact his hand against Ian’s upper arm offered. A brief, warm flush coated ran down his neck. He didn’t know how many more chances he would have to touch him. 

They were both quiet for a moment, standing in the foyer of an empty house, unspoken thoughts of love and dejection between them. 

“Lip told you?” Mickey began. “What I said?” 

“Not really,” Ian replied. “Some. Heard him talking to Fiona about it, they didn’t know I was listening. I’ve been in bed a few days…” 

“Ian…” Mickey began to say. 

“You don't love her?” Ian cut him off, eyes boring into his. 

“You know I don't,” Mickey held his stare, then dropped his head with a flush. 

“Then don’t marry her,” Ian asserted. “Just say no.” 

“It doesn’t work like that-” Mickey grew flustered, eyes darting back to Ian’s. “Svetlana… she doesn’t deserve that. The embarrassment of a runaway fiance. She will be sent back to Ukraine to marry someone else, someone worse.” 

“My family,” he continued, “What about them? I can't tell them the truth, I have no excuse to say no. I have to marry he-” 

“You don’t,” Ian countered. “Mickey, you don’t have to do anything. Your family can’t do anything, they are across the sea. An ocean away.” 

Mickey’s fists clenched at his sides, flushing. Why couldn’t Ian just _understand_? 

“What do you think is going to happen here, Ian?” he retorted. “That Svetlana’s family, my family, will be fine with this? Svetlana is coming, ticket paid, no letter would get there in time to stop it. I am supposed-” 

“We can run away,” Ian said with such certainty, such enthusiasm, that Mickey took a step back. 

“What,” Mickey stood shocked, “What the _hell_? We can’t do that. I can’t just _leave._ What about Svetlana? I have my classes, my job. …You can't either. You haven't seen me in a _week_. I _lied to you_ -” 

“None of that matters,” Ian assured with an excited glint to his eyes. Mickey looked at him in suspicion. “Really,” Ians' voice softened. “It doesn't matter.” 

Ian took Mickey’s silence, which was spent circulating the idea that Ian had forgiven him _like that_ and that they really should talk about it, as reason to continue. 

“Your classes are finishing soon? Before she arrives? I have savings, you have some too. We can get a car-no-we get the bus. Maybe we go to Canada or Philly. Maybe we could make it to California, always wanted to go there. You can leave money for her, to start her own life. Anastasiya can help her. She will be fine. Bet she doesn't want to marry you either. We can do it, Mickey, we can be free.” 

“Ian…” excuses were on the tip of his tongue. _You look so pale. Are you ok? You don’t really forgive me._

“We have three weeks, right? Three weeks to settle things. You can do bookkeeping wherever we go. I can teach. We can live together, say it's cheaper and we're waiting for the right girls. We can…” Ian went on, detailing a fantastical future for them, free of engagements and fear and _everything_. 

Mickey knew he should have said no. Told Ian this wasn’t the life he wanted, expected even. His trajectory, since leaving Ukraine was stay in New York, get a job, work, marry, die. He had been content with that, complacent to the fact his life would be no different than many. But Ian made him want more. 

Maybe it was the way Ian was looking at him like he believed everything would be alright. 

Maybe it was just that he loved him. 

They stood in the foyer of a house on East 7th Street, in Little Ukraine. It was 1952, the world was still recovering from war, and was bracing itself for a Cold War, another in Vietnam, then Korea. In a house, three blocks over, sat the newest edition of The American Psychiatric Association's _Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders_. On the thirty-second page, it listed homosexuality as a sociopathic personality disturbance.

“Ok, fine,” Mickey bit his lip, swallowed. “Let’s do it. Let’s leave New York.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for responding to my question in the last chapter - a multichapter it is! I’ve planned it for around 15 chapters, with, and I cannot stress this enough, a happy ending. My twitter is _fionaclare and tumblr fionaacclare if you wanna chat!
> 
> All comments and kudos are appreciated! I'm always excited to see what you guys think.


	7. The Planning of the Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one should be happier to break up the angst a little ;)
> 
> I also realised the acronym for this fic is 'hats' and I find that very amusing

Warm breath tickled the back of his neck, legs entwined with his. Their naked, flushed skin stuck to the sheets below them. A kiss, then Mickey was being rolled onto his back once more. It was well into the afternoon by now, he could hear the hallway clock tick softly through his locked room door. A few boarders had already come home, retreating into their own rooms. At one point, recovering from a pleasuring haze as Ian slipped out of him, he thought he could hear Anastasiya’s heels click up the stairs. 

They were quieter after that. 

“Again?” Mickey huffed out, limbs tired and eyes desperate to slip shut. They had done it four...five times? He couldn't be certain, and his desire to add to that number was waning. What he really wanted was a shower, but he could tell Ian wasn’t in agreement. 

Kisses along his kneck, then his chest. “C’mon Mick.” 

“Aren't you tired?” Mickey laughed out, shuffling to stretch beneath the man above him, their knees knocking together. 

“No,” Ian mumbled into his skin, moving up to ghost his lips over his. 

Mickey believed him. He didn’t look tired, just a sweatier version of when they started. His expression was awake, excited. He wondered how long Ian could keep it up, and thought he was probably like this because of _everything_ , the separation, the lies. He brought his arm up to grasp the back of Ian’s head, fingers threading through red strands. 

“One more,” he agreed. “Then you carry me to the shower.” 

Ian smirked, already shifting Mickey's legs so he could rest himself between them. “Not worried about people seeing us?”

Mickey shifted in the sweat-soaked sheets, grimacing. “Carry me _discreetly_ to the shower.” 

“Deal,” Ian agreed before capturing Mickey's lips in a kiss. 

They did it two more times before Mickey felt the hot spray of water against his back. Ian was leaning against the small bathroom sink, hair wet and towel wrapped around his own waist. The bath was too small for them both to shower in together. 

Mickey rubbed soap into his hair before submerging it under the torrent of water. “Are we going to talk about it?” he asked, purposefully turning his head to face Ian, whose eyes shifted to his. 

“Talk about what?” 

“You know what.” 

Silence. Mickey turned off the shower and reached for his towel. Stepping out from the bath, he wrapped it around his waist and sat against its ledge, facing Ian with his hands braced at his sides. 

“I’m sorry,” Mickey frowned. “I’m sorry for not telling you. I know it was wrong, that you deserved to know. I was just scared to lose this, us. I didn’t know how to tell you without you hating me.” His head dropped, gaze following the blue-white tile pattern on the bathroom floor.

“I,” Ian began, pausing to collect his thoughts, brow creasing. “I understand why you didn’t tell me. You didn't count on me wanting more than one night with you, wanting _more_. If I was you,” he ran his hand through his hair, damp from the steam-filled room, “maybe I would have done the same thing.” 

Mickeys eyebrows raised. 

“Maybe not,” Ian agreed, a small smile. “You should have told me,” he frowned. “Before you realised she was coming. Made me feel like I was just an escape for you, that you didn’t…” 

“Ian,” Mickey sighed. “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have agreed to leave this city with you.” 

“So you do?” Ian prompted. He took a step toward Mickey and ran a hand along the side of his neck, thumb brushing against his jawline. 

“You know I do.” 

Two men smiled at each other in a second-story bathroom of a house in Little Ukraine, where encased between four walls, steam swirled.

*

They sat on the steps of the boarding house smoking. Anastasiya had cornered them after their showers and demanded Ian stay for dinner. All the other boarders were out, or locked within their own rooms, so it was only the three of them sitting at the large dining room table. They told her their decision, which was more of Ian’s ramblings than a solid plan. Mickey liked to think it was at least a start. Anastasiya’s gaze had shifted to his throughout the meal, and for once, Mickey knew the meanings they held. _Are you sure?_

“How long until she gets here?” Ian asked, his plume of smoke fading into the night sky. 

Mickey focused his attention on the redhead, sitting a step above him. 

“Eighteen days,” Mickey confirmed, taking a drag of his own cigarette to calm his nerves. 

“That’s enough time,” Ian said with confidence. Too much, Mickey mused. 

“Anastasiya can give her your old room. We can leave some money for her, enough to get started. Give her a letter explaining you couldn’t do it or something. Then we leave.” 

“That’s a stupid plan,” Mickey snorted, cigarette dangling from his lips. “We need money for us, we don’t have much to spare, between how much is going into rent and to our families. Svetlana was brought up to be a wife, a mother, not a worker. She won't be able to pay for the room, and Anastasiya can’t afford to keep her there. Any job Svetlana manages to get won’t pay the same as mine,” he let out a sigh. 

“Why do you care?” Ian muttered, head dipping to stare at the leaf-covered stairs beneath them. A police siren wailed three blocks away. A dog began to bark. 

“She's was my friend. Before everything. Hasn't changed,” Mickey defended. “It's not fair to her.” 

Ian didn’t respond for a moment. 

“Does she know?” Ian’s question made Mickey pause, and look at the man in question. 

“Know what?” Mickey flicked some ask onto the steps. 

“About you. About us. What we are.” Ian’s gaze was piercing, calculated. 

“No-” Mickey began to argue. _Nobody did, not even my sister._

“Then how good of a friend is she?” Ian questioned, eyebrows raised. 

“That’s not fair,” Mickey huffed, turning his body from where it was previously leaning towards Ian, to facing the street in front of them. Parked cars casted dark shadows. Lights from houses beamed through thin curtains, and, distantly, the sound of families conversing at dinner tables could be heard, muffled and incoherent.

They both sat in silence for a while. Collecting their thoughts. 

Mickey spoke then. 

“What about your family? Won’t you miss them? It’s a big thing to do, leave them. It's not like you'll see them every weekend,” he argued, turning to face Ian. 

Ian frowned. “Isn’t that what you did? Left your whole family to come here alone? At least im still on the same landmass as them. They’ll understand” 

“Will they? Lip hates me,” Mickey countered, frowning. 

“He doesn’t,” Ian tried to assure. It was in vain, they both knew it. “Do you want to do this with me or not.

“I do,” Mickey said, voice softening. “I just want to do it right.” 

“We will,” Ian attempted to assure. “We will.” 

*

They agreed money was the issue in their plan, so for the following week, they worked. 

Mickey would wake up before dawn and begin driving, picking up husbands returning to their wives and then women, shoes dangling from their shimmering nails. Sometimes it would be a single man, no wedding bands on their fingers, and Mickey would wonder if they shared the same secret. He considered his future if he didn’t meet Ian, would he be a man in the back of a taxi? Returning to his wife as the sun rose and claiming a late night at work? The sun would rise and men in suits would emerge, needing to be taken to the Bronx or Queens or Manhattan. One man with a stained, ratted suit wanted to go as far as Hempstead, Mickey demanded the money upfront, and more for the drive back to the city. Ian went back to work himself, but told them his plans to leave so he could get his final paycheck in time. 

  
They hardly saw each other that week, but in both their minds, it was a necessary evil for them to live together outside of New York. They would talk on the phone at night. Mickey stood above the dial phone in the foyer, receiver pressed against his ear as Ian _talked_ and he _listened_ and the clock ticked past midnight.

Mickey finished his final class on Friday and was told his certifying documents would be mailed the following week. In routine, he was slow to pack up his things and exit the building, where Ian was waiting for him, proud smile upon his face. Mickey walked down the steps to meet him. 

“You’re done,” Ian’s hand brushed his before they both started walking a respectable distance apart. 

“I’m done,” Mickey confirmed, relief settling in. It felt… complete. It was as if everything was falling into place. He allowed himself to feel hopeful for the future, for the money and room they would leave for Svetlana, for the families that they were saying goodbye to. For once, he believed that everything might be alright. 

“Let’s celebrate!” Ian beamed, hand wandering dangerously close to his. Mickey pulled his arm away, feigning the need to root around in his pockets for something as they walked along the busy path. They both knew they could never hold hands in public, that, no matter how careful they were, would never change. 

Mickey shot him a warning look, but it faded as he caught the fond expression on Ian’s face. He looked away. 

“How? If we go to the Alibi we will spend all our savings,” he smirked. 

“Ever been to Coney Island?” 

Mickey made a face. “A… beach? That’s how you want to celebrate?” He hadn’t gone swimming since Manya, since Ukraine. It was then that he felt a jab of longing, for the cold of the forest floor beneath his feet, his sister running ahead, black hair dancing in the soft breeze before the cold, icy waters of the lake welcomed them. He wondered if American beaches would compare. He doubted it. 

Ian laughed. “You’ll like it. I promise.” 

“Whatever you say,” Mickey replied sceptically. Across the street, a woman selling the fruits outside the shop her and her husband had owned for twenty years watched two men walk closely together. _How handsome,_ she thought to herself, _I wonder what lucky girls will snatch them up._

It was the 19th of April and the middle of Spring. Flowers bloomed in the trees above them, birds squawked from rooftops. Svetlana would arrive in eleven days, but both men chose not to think about that. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments and kudos are appreciated!


	8. Coney Island and Photo Booths

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Recap: they talked and came up with a plan to leave new york but leave money for Svetlana when she arrives because a) she is a female immigrant with no certified skills to land a job with high pay, or a job to match the same pay mickey gets b) she doesn't deserve to travel all the way to another country to find no support system. They worked for a week and didn't spend much time together, Mickey finished night school and Ian proposes they celebrate by going to Coney Island 
> 
> I wanted to share an image of what swim shorts looked like back then. Now imagine Mickey in them. 
> 
> .  
> Mickey is also a total Anakin in this story. He hates sand. Its course and its rough and it gets everywhere.

They stayed together over the weekend, both reluctant to leave Mickey's room and each other's arms after a week apart. Mickey noticed Ian’s tendency to get over-excited, staying up till the early hours of the morning talking about where they would go and what they would do when they left the city. Mickey didn’t think much of it, concluding that Ian was just enthusiastic about the future. Mickey would manage only a few hours of sleep before Ian was pressed against his back once more and kissing along his neck. He didn’t mind it. He wasn’t worried.

They didn’t end up going to Coney Island until Wednesday, five days after Mickey’s graduation. 

Ian had stayed the night at Anastasiya’s on Tuesday and had brought along a pair of swim shorts for them, one of them Lip’s as Mickey had no interest in purchasing his own. _Not wasting the money on crap I’m only going to wear once. We might end up in Canada, who goes to the beach in Canada?_

The redhead only smiled in response.

They caught an early bus to Coney, cramped in a small two-seater with sticky leather seats. The bus ride took an hour, most of which Mickey spent looking at the city around them through the scratched, clouded window. Occasionally, Ian's hand would brush against the side of his thigh. Mickey chose not to stop him, it's not every day they get to leave their homes in anything but slacks and ironed shirts. 

The beach wasn’t what Mickey expected. Travelling from Europe, he had seen multiple posters depicting the American dream. Beaches were coloured with soft, sunset hues, houses had white picket fences with two children and a dog. People were happy, smiling, soaking in the American sun. 

Coney Island was busy, people taking advantage of the warmer Spring weather to drag their families away from the inner city. There were a few clouds, and the sun was blazing down upon the sand. Upon stepping off the bus, he failed to understand why people enjoyed the beach so much. It was hot, too hot despite the shorts and button-up shirt he was wearing. There was no wind to cool him down and Ian’s hand slapping against his shoulder and directing them to the sandy bay, for once, made Mickey cringe with discomfort. 

_I miss the lake,_ he couldn't help but think, _I miss Manya._

  
They made their way to the beach. Ian commented that it was busier in the summer, that you couldn't get a metre to yourself in the sand or the water. Mickey tried not to imagine it. 

They settled down in a vacant area of sand under the pier, where the shade shielded them from the rising midday sun. 

“You’re going to burn,” Mickey snarked as he unbuttoned his shirt and threw it next to their towels. 

“So are you,” Ian’s gaze glanced down at the swim shorts Mickey had borrowed as he shrugged his own shirt off. They were high waisted, black and _tight_. Mickey blushed. 

“We swimming or what?” he blurted out, desperate to cover himself from Ian’s prying eyes. Swimming, he figured, would do just that. 

“After you,” Ian smirked. 

They both laughed as they ran towards the water, taking any chance they could to touch under the guise of wrestling to first place. They collided with the water, dying waves scattering around them as they swam further out. Soon enough, to any onlooker standing on the edge of the sand, they would appear as heads bobbing in the waves. 

Ian swam around him, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lip. 

“Don’t,” Mickey said cautiously, heart racing as he noticed the look in Ian’s gaze. “Ia-”

Ian collided with him, pressing his torso against his and dragging him under the water just as a wave came towards them. They were only under the water for a few moments, but it gave Mickey the taste of what it would be like to be _free_. 

Ian’s limbs wrapped around his, his mouth pressed against Mickey’s. It was awkward and uncomfortable, but in a way wonderful. The ocean roared around them. They tumbled in the wave, before they broke through the surface of the water, eyes squinting in the sun. Ian pushed away from him at the last second. Mickey, in disorientation, looked around them. The wave had brought them closer to the beach, but it seemed no swimmers around them had witnessed what they had done. Relief filled his chest. 

“You shouldn’t have done that,” Mickey turned back to Ian, mesmerised by the way his wet red hair glimmered, slicked back against his head.

“You liked it,” Ian countered, swimming closer, then pulling back, only to repeat the motion once more. 

Mickey chose not to argue with that. 

After a while of swimming, dunking their heads under the water, and childishly splashing each other, they eventually returned to their place under the pier. Their fingers had pruned and Mickey's eyes stung from the salt in the water. 

“There is sand everywhere,” Mickey groaned, putting on his shirt and hanging his towel around his neck. 

Ian did the same, before he turned and gestured for Mickey to follow. The Ukrainian could feel the beginnings of sunburn along his back and chest. 

Mickey raised an eyebrow. 

“Isn't that enough fun for today?”

“Not at all,” Ian grinned, “I want to do one last thing with you.” 

Mickey followed him sceptically away from the beach and onto the pier. A Ferris wheel casted afternoon shadows over their forms. They were surrounded by various carnival rides, frequented by young couples and families. Laughter rose in the air. Mickey watched two children run ahead of them with fairy floss sticks hanging from their hands. 

Ian directed them to a photo booth. A sign with white lettering declared ‘ _4 Poses 25c’_. 

“Ian,” Mickey began to protest, gaze darting around them. “We ca-” 

“We can,” Ian asserted, quickly grabbing Mickey's forearm and dragging him inside the small cramped booth, shielded only by a flimsy black curtain.

Ian dug around in the pockets of his bag, where they had shoved their bus fares home and now wet towels, eventually extracting a quarter. He grinned at Mickey. 

“Ready?” 

Mickey rolled his eyes. 

The coin slipped in the slot. The camera hummed to life.

The first photo, they stared at each other, Mickey's eyebrows raised as Ian leant in. _Dare we?_

The second photo, they kissed. Ian’s hand pressed against Mickey’s cheek, thumb rubbing against his jaw. Mickey was blushing. 

The third, they continued to kiss, but Mickey grabbed the back of Ian’s head, fingers threaded in his red strands. Ian gripped his neck tighter.

The fourth, they pulled away slightly, breathless, lips wet, eyes meeting and faces flushed. 

Two copies were printed. They both looked at them for a moment, small smiles etched across their faces. In the distance, children ran along the boardwalk as their parents watched with tired smiles from afar. Mickey hid his in the pocket of his shirt, Ian’s in his bag. They continued walking along the pier, the afternoon sun shimmering across the water's edge. 

*

“Friday,” Ian said, almost too softly on the bus ride home. “Let’s leave Friday.” 

Mickey felt the weight of the photos in his pocket. He wanted more, memories that is. Of Ian and him. He hoped to fill a photo book one day, maybe they could show it to someone, someone who wouldn't care. 

_Will we always be this happy?_

“Okay,” Mickey agreed. “We leave Friday.” 

*

He pulled the front door of Anastasiya’s house open, sand stuck to his clothes and skin flushed from the sun. A smile was painted across his face. He was happy, but tired, very tired. He couldn’t wait to shower and wash the smell of sea and sweat from his skin, then climb into his rickety bed and sleep until dinner. He wondered what Anastasiya was cooking. He wanted to pull the photos from his pocket, run his fingers along the silky film and imagine the captured moments once more. 

“Mikhailo?” 

Mickey had forgotten, on occasion, that that was his name. Its lack of use over the months had rendered him more responsive to _Mickey_ or _Mick_. Reading his real name in letters from his mother wasn't the same. 

He stopped, then turned to face Anastasiya standing at the entrance of the dining room with a pitiful look upon her face. _Why is she calling me Mikhailo?_

“What’s wrong?” he frowned, and approached the Ukrainian woman. “Ana?” 

“You should call Irish boy,” her voice was stern.

“Why?” Mickey replied with caution, eyes darting behind Anastasiya’s shoulder to the dimly lit dining room. 

That's when he saw it. Saw her. 

“Hello Mikhailo,” Svetlana smiled, rising from her chair in the dining room and walking towards him. Air lodged in his throat. He swallowed. 

“Svet,” he tried to calm his expression. _How should I be feeling? Happy? Yes. I should look like I'm glad my fiance has arrived._ A forced smile stretched across his face. 

“You’re here early,” he managed to say. His heart thundered in his chest. _Fuck. Fuck._

“Yes,” Svetlana smiled. “Your family saved enough money for Amanda to come as well. She takes my later ticket, I use money to buy earlier ticket. I was ready to leave, did not need the extra time.” 

_I did though. We did._

“It's so nice to see you Mikhailo,” Svetlana stepped closer and hugged him, before remembering herself and that they are no longer friends but engaged and stepping away. “I missed you,” she confessed. 

“I missed you as well,” he admitted, “and Amanda.” 

“Yes,” she twirled her engagement ring around her finger. “It will be good. You, Amanda, me. Family.”

_Ian. It was supposed to be me and Ian._

“I,” he seemed to gasp out. Anastasiya looked on in concern. “I need to make a phone call.” 

“Yes, yes,” Svetlana rushed out. “Go ahead. Anastasiya kind enough to give me room downstairs for now. I must unpack.” 

All Mickey could do was nod, and watch his childhood friend pick up her suitcase and be directed by Anastasiya downstairs, the older Ukrainian woman flashing a sympathetic expression as they disappeared down the corridor. 

_Fuck_. 

He lurched for the telephone placed in the foyer atop an ornate wooden bench. The tone buzzed in his ear as he turned the rotary to the number of the Gallagher’s phone line, the dial clicking as it reset after each number. 

His chest was heavy as he listened to the hum of the receiver. 

Across the Manhattan bridge, a phone rang in a silent apartment. 

_Someone should be home,_ Mickey thought in desperation. 

The phone continued to ring, filling the apartment with a cacophony of shrills. 

Mickey felt a weight settle inside him. _Ian needs to know. He can’t come over when she's here. We can’t leave Friday. We can’t-_

“Hello?” Fiona's voice cracked through the speaker. Mickey let out a relieved breath. 

“Fiona,” he rushed out. “Is Ian home? I need to speak to him.” 

There was a pause. 

“Yeah... he just got in. Ian!” Fiona yelled, her voice distorted through the phone line. “It's Mickey!”

There was shuffling, and then the faint sound of a phone being handed over. Ian’s voice crackled down the line.  
  


“Mickey?” he sounded concerned. 

“Ian,” Mickey pressed his fist against the wall of the foyer, hoping to ground himself in some way, in any way. 

“She’s here early,” he ground out. 

“What?” Ian replied, confused. 

“Svetlana, she's here early,” he clarified, clearing his throat. He closed his eyes and grit his teeth. His heart swelled. _I'm not going to cry like a bitch over this. I'm not._

“Fuck,” Ian hissed out, then, quickly began to speak once more. “You have to tell her Mick. Tell her everything. You said she’s your friend, she’ll understand. Won't she? We don't have a choice now. Do you want me to come over? Make it easier?” 

Mickey took a deep breath, opened his eyes and stared down at the black bakelite phone below him, where Ian’s solutions fell on deaf ears. 

“Don’t come over.”

“What? Why not?” 

“I can’t.” 

“What do you mean you can't?”

“I need,” Mickey ran his hand along his face, fingers pressing into the bottom of his jaw. “I need time Ian. She just got here. Amanda is coming on the first. We need to come up with a new pla-”

“You’ll never leave, will you?” Ian's voice cut down the line. 

“I didn’t say that,” Mickey protested, voice weak. “I didn-” 

“I know you Mickey,” he almost imagined Ian smiling, and his heart ached against his chest. “I know you don't want to hurt her, or your family, so you'll never tell them the truth, even if it makes you unhappy. There is no new plan, only you marrying her, and forgetting me.” 

“Ian,” he snapped. “No. That’s not what’s happening. Just give me time, I'll tell her. I promise.” 

There was silence on the other end of the line. A lump formed in the back of Mickey’s throat. 

“I’m leaving Friday. With or without you.” 

There was a click, and the line died, leaving Mickey standing in the foyer, heart shattered across the tiled floor. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when they are running towards the water I imagined it as the scene after Mickey confronts Ned and Ian outside the bar, with them running down the alleyway and jumping around and happy n shit
> 
> So Svetlana in this is VERY ooc. I realised later into writing this I perhaps should have made it an original female character instead. She is opportunistic, as any woman had to be in those days, but would never hurt Mickey or Manya. She is caring and warm, and thinks of Mickey as her friend more than anything else. 
> 
> All kudos and comments are appreciated!


	9. A Russian Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok so a few important things! 
> 
> I went through and changed Mandy/Amanda's name to Manya. It's not a huge deal, just didn't want you all getting confused. 
> 
> The amazing [CaptainJowl](https://twitter.com/CaptainJowl) helped me with Russian/Ukrainian history and language for this chapter. I cannot thank you enough. 
> 
> AND I got some artwork commissioned for this fic. It was done by [ArtOfObsession](https://twitter.com/ArtofOBSESSION). I will put it in the first chapter but I wanted current readers to see it as well! 
> 
>   
> My small block of chapter notes for chapter nine began with “Begin with Svet's story” and that turned into the whole chapter… so enjoy!

Svetlana Yevgenivna was born in the winter of 1932. Rain pattered against the bedroom windows of her parent’s bedroom, where her mother clutched the hand of her sister-in-law and cried in pain as the midwife encouraged her to push. Sweat and tears ran down her mother's face, her sister-in-law ran her fingers, adorned with jewels and a wedding band, against her mother's wrist. The light above them flickered. Rain continued to fall. 

Downstairs Svetlana’s father lit a cigar. Able to hear his wife screaming, he let out a grunt, before leaning over the arm of his chair to switch their small radio on. Smoke curled above him. _Budionny's March_ crackled through its speakers. He twisted the dial, increasing the volume until his wife's screams of pain could no longer be heard. He took a satisfied inhale of his cigar, leaned back, and sighed. 

Twenty-five minutes later Svetlana was wrapped in blankets and handed to her crying, shaking mother. Her eyes were shut, and she was wailing, small body wiggling in her mother's arms. 

“She’s beautiful,” the sister-in-law, Svetlana’s aunt, admired. Her mother let out a soft laugh. 

“She is. Boys will flock to her, she will be the most beautiful in the village,” her mother stroked her hand along Svetlana’s cheek, “where is Ivan? He should see her now.” 

“The midwife is getting him,” her aunt reassured, before looking down at the bundle in the tired woman’s arms. “She will make a beautiful bride someday,” 

Svetlana’s mother offered a tired smile. 

“I hope for nothing more.” 

*

She was seven when the war began. 

They lived in Moscow on the fourth floor of an illustrious apartment building on Ostozhenka street. Her mother would brush her hair in the morning and tell her of the countess who lived just above them and the wealthy, handsome bachelor above her. Her mother could snatch her by the hips, hold firm against her squealing daughter, and tell her but it was _a witch_ that lived below _them_. A mean, old, hag with a cane and bird that sat perched on her shoulder. Svetlana would leave their apartment every day for school, and eye the closed door of the ground floor apartment wearily. She would tell her friends of the witch, run with them home after class and throw small stones at the door. It never opened.  
  


Over dinner, her parents would talk of Germany. Of treaties, of Poland, of things she did not understand. Months later she watched her father leave with an iron pressed uniform, thinking he looked like the small toy soldiers she would play with by the fireplace.

She was eight when Russia joined the allies. Her father hadn’t been home for two years, and her mother was different.

No longer would her mother brush her hair, tell her stories of the apartments above or below. Svetlana was handed her own hairbrush and told to learn for herself. She would beg for her mother to play dolls with her, to run around the apartment with her, to help her with her English, to spend time with her. _Not now,_ her mother would say, retreating into the darkness of her bedroom. The door would click shut behind her, and a heavy weight would settle in Svetlana’s heart. 

Svetlana learned to look after herself after that. 

She was twelve when the war ended and her father returned. He pretended, just as she had done, to not notice the change in her mother. She was colder, harsher. The war had changed them both, gone was her loving mother and stoic father, replaced only by shells of their former selves. Her father decided they would move away from Russia, from the city. Svetlana never questioned his decision, even as she packed her belongings, hearing her parents talk through the thin walls of Ukraine and small farming towns. _We can forget,_ her father had declared. 

They left Russia in the summer of 1946. Svetlana was fourteen. 

*

“Settle!” the teacher snapped. The school children quickly found their seats. Snickers and laughs filled the small schoolhouse, positioned along the main strip of the farming town, the church to its right and general store to its left. 

“We have a new student,” the teacher spoke in Russian. It was mandated for Ukrainian schools to learn it. _The language of the Soviet future_. “This is Svetlana. Her family just moved here from Moscow.”

Svetlana stood in the doorway of the classroom, books and pencils pressed to her chest and dark brown hair braided away from her face. _You must make a good first impression,_ her mother had demanded that morning, nails tugging against her strands. _Speak proper Russian, Ukrainians will understand you._

“There is a seat next to Mikhailo,” the teacher gestured to the back of the class, where a boy with pale skin and black hair slouched. A girl in the front row promptly turned in her seat and stuck her tongue out at him. The class laughed. “Manya!” the teacher snapped. 

Svetlana made her way to the empty seat beside the boy. Putting her books down, and her sharpened pencils beside them, she turned to look at the boy, _Mickhailo_. His blue eyes flashed to hers, and there was a moment of hesitation, before he gave her a quick smile. Their gazes snapped to the front of the class however, as the teacher began the lesson. 

Something warm filled Svetlana, the idea that _maybe everything would be ok_ , in this strange place, with strange accents, maybe she would learn to fit in. 

*

They were talking in Ukrainian. 

She had decided to spend the lunch hour outside the schoolhouse, leaning against the side of the building which faced a small field where the boys played. Most of the girls stayed inside and cast her snide looks as she dared to join them. She didn’t let their attitude get to her, she had grown up without siblings, or cousins to play with. She was used to being alone. 

There were a group of them crowded together, not close enough that she was included, but close enough that she knew she was the subject of their discussions. Their gazes flashed across her, fingers discreetly pointed and mouths moving in a language she did not understand. While Ukrainians were known to understand Russian, it was not the same the other way round. When they had arrived Svetlana had asked her parents if they knew Ukrainian. Her mother had let out a shrill, perfunctory laugh, and her father a scoff. _They are lucky to learn our language Svetlana, we have no need to learn theirs._

Her fists clenched. In her mind, she began to craft a response. _Shut it you dirty Ukraini…_

Mikhailo emerged from the schoolhouse, the girl from earlier, Manya, right behind him. Manya, in a swift movement, tugged on his ear and upon yearning a sudden yelp, ran away laughing from the cursing boy. “See you after lunch brother!” she called out in Russian. 

The group continued to stare at her and talk. Mikhailo directed his attention towards them, then looked at Svetlana. His expression hardened. 

“Leave her alone,” he instructed, his own fists clenched and gaze determined. The group eyed him in apprehension, before the girls dispersed and ran back inside and the boys went to join in on the soccer game being played in the open field. Mickhalio moved beside her, leaning against the wall of the schoolhouse as she did. 

“Thank you,” Svetlana uttered, head dropping to look at her shoes. She could see they already had small scuffs and dirt on them. It was winter. She knew her mother would be disappointed. 

“They shouldn’t do that,” Mickhalio replied. “It's rude.”

“I expected worse,” Svetlana laughed, turning to face him. 

Mikhailo smiled. “How so?” 

“I thought I wouldn't meet anyone nice here, even on my first day.” 

“Lucky you met me then,” Mikhalio smiled, something warm filled her chest. “Come on - I’ll introduce you to Manya. She's my sister. You’ll get along.” 

She followed Mickhalio down the small dip and into the sprawling field behind the schoolhouse where others played. What she didn’t know at the time was how far she would follow the black-haired boy from their small Ukrainian town. From this moment, their histories were tied. 

*

She saw the way Mikhalio looked at them. 

They grew to be friends, her, Manya and him. They would walk home together through the forest, mimicking the birds above them and chasing each other through the trees. Her mother would have them over for Saturday lunch and prepare Svetlana beforehand. _Be nice to that boy, smile, be polite. You’re fifteen now. I was married by seventeen. You have limited options in this town and he is it. Remember to eat your food quietly, be silent like a bird._

But she knew the way he looked at them. His eyes would follow them, as they played soccer outside and wrestled in the dirt. As they walked around their classroom, sleeves rolled to their forearms and hair styled with their father's gel. 

She saw the way he looked at them, and wished he trusted her enough to tell her. _One day_ , she assured herself. _One day_. 

*

The engagement was arranged on her eighteenth birthday. They were handed rings by Svetlana’s mother, and Mikhalio was directed into her father's study to talk privately. It was 1951, and Svetlana did not want to marry. 

_I know your secret,_ she wished she could tell him, _I’m sorry. I won’t expect anything from you if you do the same for me._

Other girls in town had talked of marriage. Three had married the previous year. The town had filled the church each ceremony, mothers crying and wishing the same fate for their daughters. Each girl had walked down the aisle with hope. Svetlana never imagined the same for her, but knew better to think she would ever leave the town, or live her life, without walking down an aisle in white.

So she stayed silent as the engagement ring slipped on her finger and her mother sang praises, as her father and Mikhalio exited the study and explained the _conditions_ of the engagement. _You will join him in America_ , they told her. 

She took a deep breath and smiled. 

_I will be free._

She looked at Mikhailo, as the despondent and faraway look upon his face. 

_And I hope you will be too._

*

He never wrote to her. 

When her parents would ask, she would lie. Tell them of the great things he was doing in New York, the money he was making and the life he was building. She would lie as she stared out of the window of the farmhouse, watching the animals graze and ferns blow in the cold wind. She imagined tall buildings and cars and glamour. She imagined more. 

_Just get me across the sea_ , she prayed. _We can lie, say we are married. Anything…_

_...just get me across the sea._

*

Four months later, in April of 1952, she stood in the foyer of a strange Ukrainian women's home, staring at the back of her best friend. He was shaking, fists clenched and breaths deep. It reminded her of all those years ago, outside the schoolhouse. Dirtied shoes and Ukrainian whispers. 

“Mikhailo?” she stood behind him, hand pressed against his shoulder, encouraging him to turn and face her. He was tense beneath her touch, her heart dropped. 

“What is it?” she prompted. Her hand dropped from his shoulder, falling to brush against the fabric of her dress. It had small, patterned roses on it. Her mother had purchased it the day before her journey across the Atlantic. _You will wear this when you meet him, you’ll be pale after the journey, be sure to add blush-_

He turned and swallowed, eyes shifting around the room to focus on anything but her steady gaze upon him. “I have to tell you something.” 

Her expression softened. She considered his nervous stance, the telephone behind him. _Who was he talking to?_ She remembered hearing Anastasiya say he should call an Irish boy, the way his face dropped when she said they would be a family, them and Manya. The way he looked at her with obligation. Realisation struck her. _This is it._

**_You will join him in America_** **,** they told her. 

**_I will be free._ **

**_And I hope you will be too._ **

**_She saw the way he looked at them, and wished he trusted her enough to tell her. One day, she assured herself. One day._ **

“Mikhailo,” she could see he was struggling. With the words. With her. 

“I know,” she assured. 

Confusion flooded his expression before he let out a frustrated sigh. “No,” he protested. “You don’t, Svet I-” 

“Mikhailo,” she held his hand tighter and leaned in closer. “I _know_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed Svetlana's story and side of things...
> 
> All kudos and comments are appreciated!


	10. Go Away

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this took a while, real-life stuff was happening! I have also dreaded writing this chapter for so long, as it's a massive communication fail that I hope you guys believe and don't think is too out of the realm of possibility. This is short and more of a filler/bridge for some BIG chapters coming up, after this, we are on the angsty road to a happy ending 
> 
> Someone on twitter asked how many chapters this will be - and right now I'd say 15-20. So please keep that in mind when thinking they are going to get a happy ending right now - as close as it is, I have a longer story I wish to tell for those readers that are still with me. 
> 
> The term bipolar didn't come around until the 1980's, so in this time period they were called maniacs or had 'manic depression'. 
> 
> Also I'm all for fics where lip/the family are nice and support Mickey and Ian’s relationship so I don't want to make it seem I'm perpetuating the narrative of lip HATES mickey, it just helped, in this case, with the plot. It was not intentional at all :) 
> 
> A bit of a recap since it's been a while. Svet arrived early, Ian said I’ll give you two days to decide then im leaving, then there was a chapter on Svet and Mickey as they grew up, and Svet knew he liked men all along

There was silence. Then, a breath. 

“How?” he looked at her, guarded, still tense and prepared to recoil at any time. 

“I have known for long time, since school,” Svetlana smiled, an attempt to be reassuring. _I wish you had told me_. “Who is he?” 

Their eyes met. “His name is Ian,” a shudder, he straightened his shoulders. “I think I love him.” 

“He knows?” Svetlana queried. “About us?” Her engagement ring glinted in the afternoon light as the clock dimed to their right. Five o’clock. 

“We were going to run away,” Svetlana’s lips quirked in amusement. “That was him on the phone. Said he will leave in two days. With or without me.” 

Svetlana laughed. “What will you do?” 

Mikhalio’s eyes flashed with concern. “Svet-no. I wouldn’t. There is money for you, enough to get by for a while. Anastasiya agreed to house you as long as you need,” he paused. “I’m not sure what to do. Something is wrong. With Ian. I'm not sure what, but I don’t think leaving is what’s best. For him, for us.” 

“You should go,” Svetlana ruffled her hand through his hair. Particles of sand caught beneath her nails. “Talk to him, decide. Before he decides for both of you.” 

He gazed at her, indecision in his eyes. “I’ll visit him tomorrow,” he began to move up the staircase to the second floor.

“Mikhailo,” she couldn't stop herself from asking, ceasing his movement. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Mickhalio grinned, the stress of the afternoon seeming to fall from his shoulders. 

“Svet, you know my mother always said never trust Russians,” he jived. _I didn’t know how you would react, that you wouldn’t tell, that you would still be my friend._

“ _Svoloch_ ,” Svetlana replied with a grin. It seemed to take them both back in time, to school, to walking home in the forest and Saturday lunches. _I’m happy for you,_ she thought as she watched him depart up the stairs. _I hope you both make the right choice._

* 

The apartment was quiet. 

Mickey stood in the hallway of the Gallaghers apartment, heart thumping and hands twitching nervously as his sides. _Svetlana knows. She doesn't care. We can be together. We can figure this out._

A dim light shone under the apartment door, then a shadow moved, before it was pulled open and Fiona stood before him with a distant and cold expression. 

“Mickey,” she hesitated. “Now is not a good time.” 

He frowned, and his heart dropped. 

“Where’s Ian?” she didn't respond as he moved past her into the apartment. Lip and Carl were sitting at the dining room table. They directed their guarded gaze to Mickey and for the first time since meeting Ian’s family, he felt unwelcome. 

“Where is he?” he repeated, voice rising.

“His room,” Carl confirmed. “Don’t turn the light on. He doesn't like it.” 

Mickey looked at Carl in confusion but nothing more was said. He moved towards the room he knew was Ian’s, and was thankful to know that none of Ian’s siblings were following him. 

The door to Ian’s room was cracked open. Mickey made his way inside and noticed how dark it was. There was a lump under the sheets which shuffled when he entered. He couldn’t see Ian’s face. 

“Ian,” he moved closer to the bed. _Something feels wrong._ “Ian it's me.” 

Silence.

“Svet knew. She knew all along. She's fine with it. We can be together like we wanted. I know it will be hard, but can figure this out. Together,” the silence remained. “Maybe we can go to the Alibi to celebrate?” he attempted to fill the void. 

Silence ensued. 

“Ian, what's wrong with you?” he moved closer, fingers running over the cold blankets at the end of the bed. 

“Ian?” 

“Go away,” Ian grunted into the mattress, body shuffling further into the sheets. 

“You don’t mean that-” Mickey began. His hand hovered over Ian’s bare arm that had escaped from the hold of the sheets. 

“Go away,” it was slightly louder this time. But Mickey could hear the irritation, the sadness, in his tone, and believed it. He pulled his hand away.

Mickey hesitated, eyes roaming around the room for something, some memory of Ian _before_. In the corner were a pair of shoes, sand still stuck to the heels. “Ok,” he took a step back. “If that's what you want. I’ll call you tomorrow, we can talk more about it then.” 

After the door to Ian’s room clicked shut, Ian’s mind drifted. 

_He will be happier without me. But Svetlana knows the truth? She probably still wants to marry him. I was just an escape. It's not like we can really be together anyway._

The thoughts pressed down upon him. The sheets were heavy and air cold and stale. He pressed his face into the pillow and _breathed_. 

On the other side of the apartment, Mickey stood with Ian’s siblings. 

“This is all your fault,” Lip claimed. “Our mum used to do this, we don't really understand it. But our dad certainly didn't help. Your fucking marriage and lies broke him, and now he hasn’t got out of bed properly since last night. A few weeks ago the same thing happened, he didn’t leave for days.” 

Fiona frowned. “It’s not all Mickey’s fault, we don't know-” 

“He was _fine_ before Mickey, Fi,” Lip interrupted, causing his sister to back down. In some ways, she couldn't argue with that. Ian _had_ been fine, for twenty years of his life, before Mickey entered it. Maybe the man wasn't what was best for their brother, not now at least. 

“He called me yesterday,” Mickey countered. “He was fine then, sounded okay. We went to the beach and he was fine. He's just sick with something.” 

Lip glared at him. 

“He’s not sick. Our mother had it, manic depression. She was a maniac. Doctors told us years ago it starts with emotional triggers. You _dragging him into your lies_ seems like a big fucking emotional trigger to me.” 

Mickey flinched back. Then a thought seeped into his mind. _It's your fault. They’re right._

“Mickey,” Fiona interrupted Lip’s rising anger. “Maybe you should leave. Let us deal with this. If Ian really is manic, it's our problem and not yours. It can get worse. I think you just have to move on. Or at least give him space right now.” 

The Ukrainian looked between the siblings, Carl who stood silently behind Lip, Fiona who moved to pull open the door to the apartment, and Lip, who continued to glare at Mickey.

He didn't say anything as he exited the apartment. _I’m sorry._ He repeated in his head as the bus took him back to Manhattan. _It’s all my fault._

*

Mickey never did call Ian the next day, or the day after that. 

*

At some point, a red-haired man boarded a bus with a bag of clothes and his wallet. Hidden within were pictures of him and a man in a photobooth. The bold lettering of the buses destination didn’t matter to the man as he claimed a seat near the middle. _It’s better this way. Imagine life outside of New York. Imagine._

It was difficult. but by the time the bus reached Cleveland, images of his future no longer included the form of a black-haired man by his side. 

*

A week passed. 

It was Lip who showed up at the steps of Anastasiya’s house, cigarette in mouth, jaw tense and gaze focused on the group of boys kicking a ball around the empty street. 

Mickey had opened the door, heart pounding, _hoping_ , it was Ian. It dropped when he saw the guarded expression on the brothers face. 

“What is it?” Mickey pressed, crossing his arms over his chest. He could hear Svetlana emerge behind him from the dining room and slightly turned his gaze to catch the unimpressed brow she arched at Lip. 

“Is Ian with you?” Lip shuffled, one hand retracting into his coat pocket, the other brought the cigarette to his lips once more. Smoke plumed between them. 

“What's wrong?” 

“It’s nothing,” 

“Bullshit it's nothing,” Mickey demanded. “Where is he?” 

Lip let out an irritated breath. “Gone,” Mickey’s heart stopped. “Two days now, we think he left in the morning. Caught a bus. He may still be in the city. We don’t know.” 

“How could you let him _leave_?” the words were harsh, cold. “You told me how bad it could get. That I wasn’t good for him. Now he’s gone and you’re on my fucking doorstep asking for help.” 

“I’m not asking for your help,” Lip argued. “I just came to see if my brother was here. He’s not. So now I'll leave. Let me know if he contacts you.” 

Lip began to make his way down the stairs. “Are you going to file a missing persons? What if something happened to him?” Mickey inquired, moving forward from the doorway to the front steps. _Fuck Ian, where are you?_

“If he's anything like our mother. He’ll be back eventually. We just have to wait it out.” 

“How can you be sure of that? What if-” 

“Look,” Lip interjected. “He’s my brother, I know he will be fine. Stay out of it Mickey, just forget about him. It’s over.” 

_It's over_. 

Mickey hesitated. 

“Fine,” he could feel Svetlana’s still behind him, watching it all unfold. _He’s right. It had to stop eventually. We are not good for each other. I caused all of this._ He let out a breath. “Hope you find him.” 

Lip nodded, but said nothing more as he retreated down the steps. Svetlana and Mickey watched as he disappeared down the street. A weight settled in his heart, and he wondered if this was the last time he would see a member of the Gallagher family. The connections that used to tie them together were severed, and Mickey realised that his last memory of Ian was in a darkened room as the man told him to _go away_.

_It's for the best._

He ignored Svetlana’s concern and made his way up to his room. Closing the door behind him, he leaned against it and pulled his wallet from his pocket. Unfolding it, he thumbed through the banknotes until, hidden between a twenty and a five, he extracted the row of pictures from the Coney Island photo booth. 

_We look so happy,_ he thought. His gaze traced the smile on Ian’s face, the way they gravitated closer, kissed and pulled apart. The corners of the strip were already curled in damage, small veins where the wallet folded ran across the middle. He tried to smooth them out but knew it was no use. He walked towards his nightstand and pulled open the single drawer it hosted. The wood creaked in resistance as it was tugged open. A dusty Bible, most likely from a previous occupant, lay within. Mickey opened it to a random page and slotted the strip inside. Pressing the book closed once more, he returned it to its place in the drawer. 

_It's for the best_.

It was time to forget.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if this chapter was a bit crap! The next ones will be better - promise!
> 
> Any comments and kudos are appreciated!


	11. Dreams

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, its been ages! 
> 
> I had the craziest year - as well as Covid being a thing I got in my first relationship and it has been the best but also very distracting from this! I do promise to finish this fic, despite how long it took me to get this chapter out (and it's very short which is embarrassing!). I won't make promises on the next one being done but MAYBE early February. 
> 
> For those that are still reading, I hope you enjoy!

_MICKEY_

The Alibi was busy that night. 

He sat in the corner, a single table away from the bustling and loud groups of young and older men drinking the night away. He noticed the new people, the scared boys who walked in with a more confident companion. He wondered if that’s how he looked with Ian when he first came to the alibi. Afraid. 

It had been three months since Ian had left.

He twirled the watered-down whiskey inside the glass in his hand. The amber caught the dim light of the bar, where Kevin hurriedly took orders from the Friday night crowds. 

A man across the room glanced his way. Medium build, brown hair. He was never interested, but wondered if he ever would be. The only reason he still came to the Alibi was for Ian, hoping that one day he would see him in the bar crowds or walk through the red door. He wondered what he would say to him. _I’m sorry. I wished you waited. I’m sorry._

The man walked towards him, grin dancing on his lips. 

“Want another round?” he eyed the empty chair beside Mickey. 

“Not interested,” Mickey witnessed his expression fall, then added, “Sorry.” 

“Waiting for someone then?” the man queried. 

“Yeah,” Mickey lied. “Just running late.” Would he one day say yes to these advances? One day, would Ian no longer matter to him? Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew he was wasting time over him, that one day men will stop asking him for a drink or his story. 

“Well,” the guy smiled, “I’ll be here if he never turns up. Have a good night.” The man made his way back to the bar and ordered what looked like a coke mixer. Mickey sighed, grabbed his coat and gave Kevin a nod before leaving. It was cool outside, brisk and ready for the cold of winter. There was no way he was sticking around that night, not with that guy hanging around. He usually stayed for another few drinks, enough to make him forget why he was really there. 

Under the lamplight, he pulled from his wallet the strip of photos from Cooney island. It was the only photograph he had of Ian, of _them_. He tried to remember the feeling of that day. The love, the enthusiasm. They looked happy, and Mickey wished he could be too. 

_MANYA_

A month after Svetlana arrived Manya followed, and that week they moved out of Anastasiya’s boarding house and into their own two-bedroom apartment. They still lived in Little Ukraine, and could still visit Anastasiya a few blocks away.

Manya avoided asking Mickey why the union between her brother and friend had yet to transpire. She had asked Svetlana early when she arrived in America but had been told they were reconsidering and not to tell their families. She agreed, and focused on her own, new and grand life in New York, determined to never go back to Ukraine. 

Every Friday night Mickey would go out. Once, she asked if she could join him and he said it wasn’t a place she would enjoy. Svetlana stepped in and offered to take her somewhere ‘ _girls like us would have fun’._ They put their best dresses on and did their makeup to perfection. They drank and danced and kissed many faces that night. As the lights of the city glowed above them on their stumbled walk home, for once she thought this was the life she has been waiting to live. 

She got a job at a department store a few weeks later, ladies fashion. She met elegant and fancy American women who wore bold colours and curled their hair. She wanted to look like them, she wanted to be them. 

It was then that Manya decided she didn’t want a man to make her dream of living in America. She wanted to work, and dance on Friday nights with Svetlana, then work again until she could move into her own place. She wanted the American dream, just not the one she always expected. 

_SVETLANA_

Svetlana knew Ian wasn't coming back. She also knew Mickey needed time. 

The letters from her mother began to pile up. She knew what was within them, questions of marriage and houses and children. 

“Going out tonight?” Svetlana queried as Mickey made his way to their front door, coat in hand. 

“Yeah,” Mickey replied. His hand reached for the doorknob. He wondered what he would drink tonight. Maybe a beer. Or a whiskey. 

“Don’t be home too late,” Svetlana warned, eyes sharpening. 

“I won’t,” he sighed and pulled the door open, meeting Svetlana’s gaze. “Have a good night Svet,” he attempted a smile. The door clicked shut. 

She didn’t want to marry Mickey, and Mickey didn’t want to marry her. But their families would want news eventually, and would one day visit, hoping to see white picket fences and many grandchildren. They couldn’t lie, but they couldn’t go through with the marriage either. 

Svetlana had dreams too. Living in America made her realise she had opportunities beyond marriage. Svetlana could be more than a wife, or a mother, she could be all of those things and more - and she knew Mickey was not the answer to her future anymore. 

One day soon, the three of them would no longer be tied together as they are, and Svetlana knew that wasn’t a terrible thing.

_MICKEY_

That night. He didn’t go to the Alibi.

Walking down the streets of Little Ukraine he found Veselka, the cafe was as it always was, bright and smelling of sweets and coffee on a cold Autumn night. 

In amusement he wondered if this was where he would find Ian, sitting in a corner table drinking coffee. But there were no customers, just an unknown waitress cleaning the counters. He ordered a coffee and apple cake, and sat at the same table Ian and him had sat months before. From his coat, he extracted an old notebook and pen. He sighed and flipped the pages open. Letters, letters to Ian and his family filled the pages over the last three months. He usually wrote in the comfort of his room but felt different tonight. Little did he know, across the country the man he loved was writing his own letter home, in a dingy motel room with paper-thin walls, where couples screamed at each other and TV static roared. 

Mickey sniffed, then began to write, pen scratching across the paper in the late hours of a Ukrainian cafe in New York. 

He wondered if Ian would ever get to read it.

  
  



End file.
